The Snow Waltz
by The Irish Chauffeur
Summary: So, just how was it that Max, Friedrich and Edith's elder son came to be such an accomplished dancer? Set both before and during WWII. A short companion piece to my other stories, telling the lives of the Bransons, the Crawleys and the Schönborns 1918-1945 and beyond. The idea for this tale came from the opening sequence of the film "Photographing Fairies".
1. Chapter 1

The Snow Waltz

Chapter One

Echoes of Vienna

 **Christmas Eve, Piccadilly, London, England, December 1941.**

In this the third winter of the war, tonight, here on the bustling thoroughfare which was Piccadilly, one of the widest and straightest streets of London, the acrid stench of burning hung heavily in the cold, chill air of the December evening.

Stretching from Hyde Park Corner in the west, as far as Piccadilly Circus in the east, save for where it was bordered by Green Park, for most of its length, Piccadilly was lined by an unbroken array of magnificent buildings, built of brick and stone, some even five or six storeys high. Among which, were hotels such as the Ritz, the Park Lane, and the Athenaeum. Gentlemen's and servicemen's clubs could be found here too, including St. James's, the Royal Air Force, the Turf, the Cavalry, and the United Empire, among many others. Even the Bachelors, the membership of this last restricted, as might be expected from its name, to those who were unmarried; although it was whispered that behind its closed doors and shuttered windows, some of its members were rather more "confirmed" bachelors than were the rest.

There were offices and shops, along with department stores such as Fortnum and Mason, Simpsons, and Swan and Edgar. And then there were the restaurants: the Café Royal, and the Criterion, as well as other rather more affordable tea shops and cafés, such as the Trocadero, not forgetting of course, the Lyons Corner House standing on nearby Coventry Street. In all of which, despite the stringent rationing, the food on offer was still edible, if not perhaps as varied as it had once had been. However, for those who were fortunate enough to have both the money and the right contacts, no doubt even this could be overcome, especially in the rabbit warren of dark streets which constituted Soho, and where almost anything could be had ... for a price.

But even on Piccadilly, one of the most prestigious streets in this, the capital of the far flung British Empire, evidence of the appalling damage having been wrought on London during the last few tumultuous months by the relentless bombing of the city by the Luftwaffe, in the form of burnt out, blackened shells of buildings, enormous piles of rubble, charred timbers, shattered brickwork, and broken, fallen masonry, was only all too evident. Just hereabouts, the Queens and the Shaftesbury, both well known theatres, were now gone. So too, St. James's church, a seventeenth century masterpiece designed by Sir Christopher Wren in 1672. Like All Hallows by-the-Tower, where some fifteen months earlier in September 1940, Max and Claire had been married, now gutted by high explosives dropped in yet another incendiary raid. Nothing was left standing of St. James's either, save for the tower and the bare, ruined walls of both the church's nave and chancel.

And it was not only the burned out, wrecked buildings which bore witness to the savage ferocity of the on-going conflict with Germany. At the east end of the broad street, the figure of Eros perched atop the fountain in Piccadilly Circus had been removed and the fountain itself boarded up for the duration; the wooden hoardings covering it now liberally plastered with all manner of advertisements connected with the war: " _Dig For Victory_ ", " _Use It Up-Wear It Out-Make Do_ ", " _Spend Less On Yourself_ ", _Forward To Victory_ ", " _Britain Shall Not Burn_ ", and so forth.

There were other equally visible reminders of the war too: in the form of huge water tanks, hastily installed, to provide a means of fighting incendiary bombs, the equally hurriedly erected air raid shelters, allegedly bomb proof, as to whether they were seemed to be a matter of opinion, depending on to whom one spoke, all manner of windows liberally taped so as to prevent flying splinters and shards of broken glass, the boarded up, sand-bagged fronts of shops, along with the blast proofing of the entrances to the Underground.

Just as before the war the red London omnibuses and the equally familiar black taxis continued to ply for fares, and horse drawn drays and carts likewise clip clopped and rumbled their way along the busy thoroughfares of the city. These days, however, private cars were almost a thing of the past; as elsewhere in the country, had all but disappeared from off the streets of London, only to be replaced by all manner of military vehicles. So the roads here in the capital were no less busy.

And during the hours of darkness, with the blackout being rigorously enforced, with no street lighting, and with traffic lights reduced to minute crosses of red, amber, and green, drivers and pedestrians had to be equally alert and vigilant. The only concession to public safety were the kerbs of the pavements, now painted white, to help guide those who had to be out at night; while shadowy figures of policemen, their capes and tunics dipped in luminous paint in an attempt to make them more visible, did their very best to control the traffic with nothing more than whistles.

While scarcely half an hour had passed since the air raid sirens had sounded the All Clear, and despite the deadly rain of both death and destruction which had been wrought upon London during the Blitz by the incessant bombing of the Luftwaffe, this being Christmas Eve, tonight the pavements of Piccadilly were crowded, with both civilians and all manner of service personnel, the latter dressed either in khaki or else blue: army, navy and air force. Not only British, but representatives of virtually all of the different allied nations too: from Australia, Canada, and New Zealand, as well as from Belgium, from France, from Poland, and from Soviet Russia.

Now that the war had had the insolent temerity to come knocking insistently on America's own back door, in the form of the recent and unprovoked attack by the Japanese on the United States' naval base at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii, the ranks of all those in uniform here in Britain were likely in very short order to be swelled by the arrival of service personnel from across the Atlantic Ocean, all the way from the America: soldiers, sailors, and airmen.

And not only men; for there were enormous numbers of women in uniform too, not only in the armed services, but working on the railways, on the omnibuses, in the factories, out on the farms, doing all manner of work, previously only done by men. It was said, and with justifiable pride, that here in Britain, these days there was scarcely a job that women had not tackled, in or out of uniform, although as to whether this included the Piccadilly Commandos, was a question perhaps best left unanswered.

* * *

So far, as doubtless it had been for countless others who had also endured the terrible ordeal of losing family and friends in the war, 1941 had been an utterly dreadful year for the Crawleys. Back in May, one of Max's cousins, Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil's boy, Bobby, aged just fourteen, had died needlessly, along with many others, men, women, and children, when quite inexplicably the Luftwaffe had dropped bombs on Dublin's Northside. It was said afterwards that the German air crews had believed they were over Belfast. But whatever the cause, the result was the same; innocent lives snuffed out in an instant, of those who had played no part in this dreadful conflict; this time made infinitely worse by the fact that Ireland was a neutral country. And then barely two months later, in July, up in Yorkshire, at Downton, Granny Cora had been killed, when one night a badly shot up Heinkel had first clipped the steeple of St. Mary's Church before going into a tail spin and hitting hit the Dower House, incinerating both the house and all those inside.

However, just a matter of days ago, here in London, information had been received by the SOE, that another of Max's cousins, Robert Crawley, a pilot with the RAF, who had been shot down over Boulogne way back in November 1940, was not only alive, but also now safe and sound in Gibraltar, awaiting repatriation home to blighty. Earlier today, just as the soon as all of this had been confirmed, Max himself had telephoned Downton Abbey in order to let Uncle Matthew, Aunt Mary, and Rob's wife, Saiorse, know the wonderful news, that Robert was alive and coming home.

Not that Max had yet had the opportunity to tell Claire the happy news about Rob. He intended doing so just as soon as they met up, but a short distance from here, at the Lyons Corner House on Coventry Street, off Piccadilly Circus, where they were to have a bite to eat; before catching the Underground out to Whitechapel, the nearest station to their shabby, rented flat on Old Montagu Street.

For, despite the horrendous bombing of the East End, the heartfelt pleas of his parents up in Yorkshire, and those of her father down in distant Devonshire, Max and Claire had refused resolutely to move somewhere safer until they themselves had saved up enough money to enable them to do so. Max continued to insist, and this with Claire's full agreement, that the cheque given him by Rob, enabling Max and Claire to marry, had been a loan.

And, even when Rob had been posted missing in action, believed killed, both Max and Claire took the view that the money should not be squandered and should be repaid, to Rob or, as had for some time seemed likely, to Saiorse. Not that privately either Saiorse, or for that matter Rob, had ever seen the money as anything other than an outright gift. Even so, at least for the time being, Max and Claire continued to put up with all of the bombing and the destruction and stayed put in Whitechapel.

Opposite Simpsons, still stocked with all manner of clothing, albeit these days most of it was of a military nature, Max paused briefly at a news stand to purchase a late edition of the _Daily_ _Telegraph_. Having handed the news vendor a scattering of coppers, both for the paper and by way of a Christmas tip. In the pervading gloom of the December evening, Max glanced briefly at the front page of the newspaper which made for grim reading, with the attack on the American Naval Base at Pearl Harbor in the Pacific and its resonating aftermath, still being the main story.

It was now, that quite unexpectedly, the strap of the box containing his gas mask broke. Quite why on earth he continued to carry it around with him, Max couldn't fathom; habit probably. For, despite all the warnings, the Germans hadn't dropped poison gas; at least not yet. And increasingly, there seemed little likelihood of the mask ever being required to be used. But Max and everyone else still continued to carry them; which, on balance, was probably for the best.

But had the strap not broken, Max would never even have heard it. Now as he fumbled with the strap, attempting to make it secure and be on his way, suddenly the hairs on the nape of his neck began to rise. Glancing up he saw the snowflakes powdering down and along with them, seemingly from out of nowhere, but obviously from somewhere, came the music; the tune itself, instantly recognisable. And, standing there in the fading light of the December evening, on the busy, crowded street, Max found himself thinking back to a time before the world went mad, when all seemed so safe, so secure, and he himself had been scarce eight years old ...

* * *

 **Christmas Eve, Vienna, Republic of Austria, December 1931.**

Max looked down at his dachshund, Fritz, seated beside him in the snow, and smiled. Seeing the eyes of his young master upon him, the little dog gave a short, playful bark, then sniffed cautiously at the snowflake which had landed on his nose only, a moment later, to see it vanish before his startled eyes.

Despite being warmly wrapped against the winter chill, Max shivered. Wished earnestly, and with all his heart, that darling Mama would cease her chatting with Fräulein Henderson and do as she had promised him earlier this afternoon, when they had been walking down the Graben. That once Mama had finished her Christmas shopping, she would take Max to the Central Café, where she would buy him a delicious cup of hot chocolate and a mouth watering pastry before they caught the early evening train from the Westbahnhof as far as St. Johann, where Weisman would be waiting with the motor to drive them both back to Rosenberg.

But then, within sight of the Central Café, they had the misfortune, at least as far as Max was concerned, to run into one of Mama's English friends who lived here in Wien: Fraulein Henderson, who rented a flat overlooking the Michaelerplatz, who earned her living by giving lessons in English and also teaching the piano.

However, if he had been asked what it was that he himself remembered most about Fräulein Henderson, Max would have told you that invariably she smelt overwhelmingly of jasmine. Something which Mama never seemed to notice but, about which, one day, a few months ago, when having chanced to meet up with Fräulein Henderson, her perfume had been even stronger than usual, Max had then plucked up the courage to ask his mother.

* * *

Of course, Mama wore perfume too. But her own, _Shalimar_ \- Max had often seen the delicately shaped bottle of amber liquid standing on her dressing table - was so very much nicer. And, had he known the words, Max would have told you that Mama's scent had a beguiling, elusive quality about it, whereas with Fräulein Henderson it was as if she had fallen head first into a huge tub of jasmine scented water, comparable in size, Max thought, to one of the enormous barrels which Max had seen in the Ottakringer brewery which he had visited just last year along with his parents, the owner of which, Herr Kuffner, was a friend to both Papa and Mama.

* * *

Having heard what it was that was perplexing him, Edith had smiled at her young son and then drawn Max forward into the comforting circle of her arms before seating the little boy on her lap.

"My darling, what you have to understand," had explained Mama softly, having first sworn Max to absolute silence on the matter, "is that Fräulein Henderson is lonely and also rather fond of cognac".

Now, while in all other respects he was a happy little boy, because of his haemophilia, in his short life, Max had spent a very great deal of time in bed or else in hospital. So, even at eight years old, loneliness was something which he understood. And while he loved darling Papa and Mama very much indeed, knew that they loved him too, as an only child, what Max wanted more than anything were friends of his own age with whom to play. But because of his illness, Mama was very wary of allowing such encounters, knowing only too well that for Max, an otherwise innocent game of rough and tumble, with boys of his own age, could in all likelihood spell disaster.

This apart, Max knew what that cognac was too; after all, his beloved Papa drank cognac, even in preference to Schnapps. But that only made the matter of Fräulein Henderson even more mysterious. For despite Papa liking brandy, he never smelt of jasmine. Nor, for that matter, of cognac.

"But if Fräulein Henderson likes cognac, then why does she always smell of jasmine?" had asked Max wide-eyed and in all innocence.

"Well, darling," continued Mama, "the thing is you see, it isn't considered at all proper for a young lady to ...

So, having now at length had it explained to him just why it was that Fräulein Henderson was so liberal in the application of her perfume, _Acaciosa_ , young Max had gravely nodded his head, faithfully promising Mama that he would never breathe a word of what she had just told him.

* * *

Somewhere close by to where young Max was now standing on the snowbound pavement of the Herrengasse, holding tightly onto Mama's hand, someone was playing a zither. Although he did not recognise the tune, instinctively, Max knew it had to be a waltz. After all, here on the streets of Vienna, the birthplace of the Waltz King, Johann Strauss, what else would someone be playing, if not a waltz? And Max was right. For, not that he knew it, at least not then, had not the great Hector Berlioz said that Vienna without Strauss would be like Austria without the Danube?

Now, as the delicately plucked, tinkling notes continued to drift mellifluously through the frost hung air, Max looked about him, seeking to ascertain the whereabouts of the invisible musician. But he did so in vain; saw only instead a flurry of snowflakes, feather light, beginning to drift down out of the rapidly darkening sky. Heard too the doleful bells of the Stephansdom, muffled by the softly falling veil of snow, ringing out across the white shrouded streets of the bustling city.

* * *

Here on the Herrengasse, at last Max dared to hope that Mama had finished chatting with Fräulein Henderson, which indeed proved to be the case. For, having wished each other the compliments of the season, at long last, the two women now said their goodbyes. As Fräulein Henderson set off cautiously along the icy pavement, Edith looked down at Max and smiled. He really was a handsome, winning little boy.

"I know what you need," she said laughingly.

"A glass of cognac?" suggested Max with a delightfully impish grin.

"Max! Now, what did I tell you?" exclaimed Mama, glancing up to see that Fräulein Henderson was safely out of ear shot and breathing a sigh of relief when she saw that was the case. A moment later, Max saw the corners of his mother's mouth twitch, broaden first into a smile, then into a grin wide enough to match his own, as shaking her head, now laughing openly, with her gloved hand, Edith indicated the front door of the Central Café.

 **Author's Note:**

The Snow Waltz was composed by Thomas Koschat (1845-1914).

 _Photographing Fairies_ is a film which should be far better known than it is. Based on the true story of the Cottingley Fairies, its male lead is played by Toby Stephens, the elder son of Maggie Smith.

 _Piccadilly Commandos_ , the nickname given to the many prostitutes who, during WWII, on account of all the servicemen's clubs in the area, roamed the district around Piccadilly Circus looking for custom.

SOE: Special Operations Executive. The secret, shadowy organisation based in Britain which, during WWII, undertook espionage, sabotage, reconnaissance, and helped resistance movements in Occupied Europe and for which, in the story, Max works.

Following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on 7th December 1941, the United States declared war on the Empire of Japan on that same day. This was followed, four days later, by a declaration of war on Nazi Germany.

Wien - Vienna.

Louis-Hector Berlioz (1803-1869) a French Romantic composer.

Stephansdom - St. Stephen's Cathedral, and the most important religious building in all of Vienna.

The Graben - one of the most famous streets in Vienna.

Opened in 1876, and still in existence today, the Central Café in Vienna would become a meeting place for intellectuals. Among those who came here in January 1913 were Josip Broz Tito, Sigmund Freud, Adolf Hitler, Vladimir Lenin, and Leon Trotsky.

 _Shalimar_ created by Guerlain in 1925, and Edith's favourite perfume.

Founded in 1837, the Ottakringer Brauerei is the last large brewery remaining in Vienna. The Kuffners were Jewish, and because of this, even before the Anschluss, Moriz von Kuffner would be forced to sell his business.

 _Acasiosa_ , released in 1924 by Caron.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Tea For Two

 **Central Café, Vienna, Republic of Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

Here on the ground floor of the Central Café, beneath its soaring vaulted ceiling and amid a veritable forest of lofty marble columns, patrons could be forgiven for feeling that they were seated in the chapel of a church, or even perhaps a cathedral. An impression which may, in part, have accounted for the somewhat subdued atmosphere of the café's clientele, leading to hushed conversations and the delicate chink of both silver and china. Or maybe it was simply the fact that presiding over one and all here present were full length portraits of the late Emperor and Empress, Franz Joseph and his wife Elisabeth, who gazed down, haughty and silent, from out a pair of heavy, gilded frames, upon the decidedly plebeian patrons of the Central Café.

But whatever the reason for it, the quiet and warmth of his immediate surroundings suited little Fritz perfectly. So while his young master sat, ate and drank his fill, the little dachshund, who had quite enough of sitting on his haunches in that cold, nasty white stuff lying outside there on the pavement, and which seemed to manifest itself about the same time each and every year, now promptly curled up and went to sleep at Max's feet.

Sitting at a marble topped table beside one of the café's many arched windows overlooking the Herrengasse, stylishly dressed in a beige Vionnet day ensemble with a matching cape and fedora, worn with a black fur boa, white blouse, and a pair of serviceable brogues, turning her elegantly coiffured head, Edith caught sight of the delicate floral and leaf patterns etched in the frost which had formed on the outside of the panes of glass. Knew she would be very glad indeed when both Max and she were back, safe and sound with Friedrich at Rosenberg, the more so since the road, which climbed from the quiet wayside station of St. Johann, up through the silent darkness of the pine forest, all the way to the house, was both narrow and tortuous. Something which, having driven along it herself several times, and in all kinds of weather, Edith would readily vouchsafe. What was worse, was that it was not unknown for the road to become blocked by snow in winter.

* * *

Standing on the table between herself and Max was a silver hot water jug, the thin stream of steam, spiralling lazily from the tip of the curved spout, momentarily attracting Edith's attention before she turned back once again to consider Max. Watched, amused, as the little boy continued to apply himself with gusto to his hot chocolate and the _Apfelstrudel_ which, after much considered deliberation, he had at last chosen, from out of the mouth watering display of pastries on offer here in the Central Café and for which it was justly renowned.

"Does that taste good?" Edith asked with an indulgent smile at her young son. Tried not to think about the worsening state of the weather.

* * *

Of course she knew very well that she spoiled him but, given all of the circumstances, was that really so very surprising?

Darling Max, now eight years old, the illegitimate scion of one of Austria's oldest families, whose own father, Friedrich was decidedly _persona non grata_ with his own relatives because, following the death of his first wife in the epidemic of Spanish 'Flu which in the aftermath of the Great War had swept across Europe, he had then dared to fall in love with an alluring, capable, free spirited Englishwoman; someone who was not even a Catholic and with whom he lived openly, outside the bounds of marriage. Thereafter, in very short order had proceeded to have a child by her, born out of wedlock.

While all of this was true enough, what those ill disposed towards Friedrich and Edith overlooked, and singularly so, was that theirs was a love match, a partnership of equals, and darling Max, the child of their union was one born out of an intense physical passion. At the memories this now evoked, the more so given the time of year, Edith found herself blushing, as she recalled to mind another Christmas Eve, some nine years ago, back in 1922, spent under canvas, beside the slow flowing waters of the Nile, in the immediate aftermath of the discovery, by Howard Carter, of the tomb of the boy pharaoh, Tutankhamun ...

* * *

 **Valley Of The Kings, Egypt, Christmas Eve, 1922.**

It was almost dark, but westwards, across the Nile, a faint haze of yellow light yet lingered over distant Cairo, casting a gleam of gold upon the waters of the river. Behind her the sounds of the camp faded into silence and, as they did so, above her head she heard the leathery palm fronds rustle in the breeze while a sudden chill brushed her skin. Not that for a moment Edith believed in all that nonsense about the pharaoh's curse which, even now, was being reported widely in lurid detail in many of the newspapers both here in Cairo and in others yet even further afield.

Some three years ago, back in June 1919, over in Dublin, at the Shelbourne Hotel, Tom and Sybil had told her that following the dictates of the heart often made no sense at all, except to those directly involved. Edith was no fool and she knew perfectly well where this evening's assignation might end. And on that score, she had no regrets. None at all. Yet, for all that, she sensed that she was setting in train something for which, one day, a very high price would have to be paid.

"So then, will you teach me?" she had asked, standing there in the pale moonlight, beside the open flap of his tent.

Friedrich had nodded his head; gently laid aside the guitar on the camp bed.

" _Wenn Sie es wünschen_. If you wish it". He inclined his head and smiled. " _Aber vorher_ ..." he began.

"What?" Edith asked softly.

Friedrich shook his head.

Even if she didn't, he himself knew that the time for talking was over. That being so, he rose from the bed, closed the short distance that separated them, and drew her into his arms.

A moment later and the light in the tent went out.

* * *

Then, of course, there was Max's haemophilia. A life sentence; albeit it seemed likely it would be one of short duration as the last consultant Edith and Friedrich had seen, a Jew by the name of Hartman, at his clinic near Salzburg, had explained to them as kindly as he could that, if Max was very fortunate, then he might live until he was twenty, perhaps a little longer. Understandably, Friedrich and Edith had been appalled; resolving to continue taking every precaution possible to try and ensure that their young son did not injure himself. But, however careful they were, as might be expected with a lively little boy such as Max, accidents continued to happen, along with spontaneous episodes of internal bleeding about which nothing could be done by way of prevention.

Not long after Friedrich and Edith had learned the awful truth that Max was suffering from an incurable blood disease, that was likely, eventually, to prove fatal, an elderly great aunt, living in Switzerland, with whom from time to time Friedrich had corresponded, had written her great nephew a letter in which she made no mention either of Edith or Max, other than an oblique reference wherein she alluded to the fact that one did not cross a thoroughbred with a mongrel and then wonder why it was that the offspring was tainted. Edith had been horrified and Friedrich no less appalled. " _Stock und Stein brechen mein Geiben, doch Worte bringen keine Pein_ ," he said before angrily tossing the letter into the fire. But despite what he had said about sticks and stones, the slur on both Edith and young Max rankled. Suffice it to say, he never replied to his aunt; nor did he ever hear from her again.

* * *

And if Friedrich's own family did not approve of Edith nor the irregularities surrounding their union, then what of Edith's own family?

She had often found herself wondering what would they say, were she to tell them about Friedrich ... about darling little Max. Would they be any more tolerant? Any more understanding? Even with dearest Papa now gone, save for darling Tom and Sybil, Edith doubted that they would, irrespective of the fact that since the war times had changed and, after all, Max was such a delightful, little boy.

* * *

Of course, Edith had seen to it that Max knew he had grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, living over in both England and Ireland. There were photographs of all them scattered throughout the rooms at Rosenberg, in the Drawing Room, had pride of place on the two half round tables standing in the hall, and in Friedrich and Edith's own bedroom.

But while they knew nothing of him, Max knew both their faces and their names.

There was Grandpapa, who had been a Graf but who, sadly, had died just last year, although by then, he was very old indeed, and not very well. And there was Grandmama. They were Mama's parents.

Grandmama was now aged sixty four, which to Max seemed positively ancient but while Mama assured him that his English Grandmama was nowhere near as old as some of the mummies which Mama herself had helped Mr. Carter excavate out in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, Max was not entirely convinced. So much so that he had nightmares of a bandage clad figure approaching his bed in the dead of night, arms outstretched, telling him that she was his Grandmama come from England to see him.

There was Uncle Matthew who had been a solicitor, a lawyer, in a city called Manchester. Then when the Great War had begun, he had joined the British army, as an officer who, like Papa, then fought in the war, but on the other side. Later on, Uncle Matthew had been badly wounded and, while he was recovering, had to be pushed around in a wheelchair. And there was Aunt Mary; Mama's elder sister; who was very beautiful, who so loved to ride, and who, while he was poorly, had helped to push Uncle Matthew about Downton in his bathchair. Since the death of Grandpapa, Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary had become the Graf and the Gräfin of Grantham and, along with their three children, Robert, Simon, and Rebecca, all lived in the north of England, at Downton Abbey in Yorkshire.

And across the sea, over in Ireland, there was Uncle Tom who was Irish, and although he hadn't fought in the war was, said Mama, a very brave and courageous man. He was married to Aunt Sybil, Mama's younger sister who was _kindness itself_. Quite what that meant, Max wasn't at all sure but he knew too that Uncle Tom had once worked at Downton Abbey as chauffeur to the Crawley family, where he had met and fallen in love with Aunt Sybil. And then there were their children, of whom there were also three: Danny, Saiorse, whose name was spoken completely different to the way it was written, and last of all little Bobby. Uncle Tom was now a ... _Journalist_ and Aunt Sybil, a _Krankenschwester_ , a nurse.

* * *

And one day, promised Mama, Max would meet all of them.

But quite when that would come to pass ...

* * *

 **Central Café, Vienna, Republic of Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

At Mama's question, Max looked up; grinned broadly at his mother. His smile faded and he frowned.

"Mama?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Your face is all red".

"Is it?" Edith deftly steered the conversation into far safer waters than those of the Nile and the memories it had evoked. "A moment ago, I asked about your _Apfelstrudel_. Is it good?"

"Mm! Rather!" Then, remembering his manners, it was Max who now blushed; sat up straight. "What I mean is ... Thank you, Mama, yes, it is".

"Oh, Max, darling, you've chocolate all round your mouth! Here, let me". Edith took out her delicate, lace edged handkerchief and dabbed carefully and decisively all around Max's mouth, reflecting that when they were his age, neither she nor her sisters would ever have been allowed to behave so in public. Although, come to think of it, the last time she had taken tea with Mary and Sybil, which had been earlier this very year, when Edith had flown over to England to attend the funeral of darling Papa, sitting watching Sybil _demolish_ \- there really had been no other word for it - a scone liberally laden with jam and cream, in the Cathedral Tea Rooms in far distant Ripon, Mary had observed that Granny, God rest her soul, and Mama would have had a positive fit.

"There. That's much better". Max grinned at his mother and, thoroughly unabashed, continued with his _Apfelstrudel_. For her part, Edith glanced briefly at her watch - yes, there was still time - before they had to leave for the Westbahnhof and poured herself a final cup of tea.

Close by to where Edith and Max were now sitting, another mother with her son, a lad of much the same age as young Max, had brought to their table the boy's own choice of cake; a piece of chocolate gâteau. With the lamps of the Central Café radiating warmth and light out onto the ice bound pavements of the Herrengasse, as beyond the frosted, misted windows of the café, it grew ever darker and the snow continued to fall, Edith found herself recalling to mind another long gone afternoon tea.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, February 1920.**

Outside, as the dusk drew down, beyond the centuries old stone walls of Downton Abbey the fog had thickened, swirled eerily about, a damp, dank, grey gauze of mist, shrouding both the trees and surrounding parkland from sight, and from the gaze of all those within the great house, whether family or servants.

Inside, the lamps were lit, the electric lights switched on, and here, in the magnificent Library of the abbey, before a splendid, roaring fire, heedless of the worsening weather without, the family sat at their leisure, taking afternoon tea. There was the polite chink of bone china and subdued chatter, so reminiscent thought Sybil, of the atmosphere in the dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel over in Dublin just before the bomb exploded; hoped fervently that this time afternoon tea would not end as abruptly as it had done at the Shelbourne.

" **That** was really yummy!"

Setting down his tea plate, Tom winked broadly at Edith, his eyes sparkling with merriment, before proceeding to lick his fingers several times. While Lord Grantham shook his head, raised his eyes heavenwards towards the ceiling, Cora smiled happily at her handsome Irish son-in-law who throughout tea had been explaining to them, something of his daily routine at the Independent.

"Of course, that's one of the things which make it all so interesting. You're never quite certain, for sure, what's going to happen, what I might be called upon to cover. Mind you, I'd rather not go through another encounter at close quarters with the IRA. Once was quite enough for me!"

"For all of us!" declared Sybil.

"Agreed!" chorused Mary and Edith.

Tom eyed the last piece of chocolate cake.

Catching sight of Tom casting envious glances at the solitary remaining slice, Cora nodded her encouragement.

"Go on, Tom, have it! It's there to be eaten and I know Mrs. Patmore will be pleased. When they returned from Ireland Mary and Edith both said just how much you like chocolate cake. So, with you in mind, I asked Mrs. Patmore to make one especially for your visit".

"Thank you, Lady Grantham".

"Cora, please".

"Well, if no-one else ..." Tom looked hopefully, first at his wife and then at his two sisters-in-law.

"And what if one of us said we wanted it?" asked Mary with a laugh.

"Then I'd say it was bad for you. That I was doing you a singular service by eating it!" Tom chuckled, reached forward and swiftly took possession of the last piece of cake.

"Tom! You're absolutely incorrigible!" laughed Sybil.

Between taking bites of chocolate cake, happy as a sand-boy, Tom grinned contentedly at his mother-in-law.

"That was very kind of you, asking Mrs. Patmore. And do you know the best thing about this chocolate cake... er... Cora?"

The countess of Grantham shook her head, waited patiently for his explanation until Tom had finished every last morsel of cake.

"This time I actually got to eat it!" Tom laughed, licking his fingers again and setting aside his now empty plate for the second and final time.

Cora smiled at him indulgently.

"Yes, Mary and Edith told us what happened at the Shelbourne, how brave you were ..."  
"It was nothing. Anyone would have done just the same as I did," said Tom modestly.  
"Perhaps" said Cora evenly. "But it wasn't **anyone** that did what had to be done that day. It was **you** , Tom. After I learned what had happened, I know that I wrote to thank you for what you did, but to the heartfelt, sincere thanks of the girls, now that you're here, permit me once again to add my own in person. Thank you, from the very bottom of my heart!"

Tom blushed red to the very roots of his hair; nodded his head. Sybil patted his knee encouragingly

"Thank you, Cora. That means a very great deal to me," Tom said softly.

* * *

 **Lyons Corner House, Coventry Street, Piccadilly, London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

On Piccadilly, despite the press of the crowds, as she made her way cautiously across the street from the entrance to the Underground, Claire saw him almost immediately.

Max.

Smart in his overcoat and trilby, undeniably good looking, so much so that she saw several of the girls walking past him, turning their heads, casting approving glances in his direction, while darling Max, seemingly unaware of the surreptitious attention being bestowed upon him, continued to stand beside the front doors of the Lyons Corner House, eagerly scanning the faces of the passers-by, seeking to catch sight of her.

* * *

Even though they had been married for over a year, at times Claire could scarcely believe her good fortune; that Max was indeed her husband. That he, a member of one of the oldest families in Austria, and she, the daughter of a Devonshire tenant farmer, were man and wife. That this unlikeliest of pairings had come to pass because of the war. Because too of the deaths of thousands of innocent people, men, women, and children, lost on board the _Lancastria_ , sunk off St. Nazaire, on the west coast of France, back in June 1940. And also because dearest Danny had the misfortune to be set upon by two soldiers from Northern Ireland and thrown off the Plymouth train onto the platform of the station at Wrangaton where Claire's brother Edward worked as a signalman.

* * *

"Max!"  
"Claire!"

To a chorus of good natured wolf whistles, the two of them shared a lingering kiss; Claire singularly unaware that she was also drawing jealous looks from some of the women passing by along the street; all of whom, no doubt, were earnestly wishing that they could trade places with her.

Eventually they broke apart and Claire now observed Max with a practised eye.

"What?" he asked.

"You look very pleased with yourself".

"Do I now?"  
"Yes, you know you do".

"Then, maybe I am".

"So what's happened?"

"Let's go inside out of the cold".

"Max ..."

"I'll tell you about it over supper. Promise".

And with that, at least for the present, Claire had to be content.

* * *

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

Here in Austria, for many, a schloss yet conjured up the image of a ruined medieval castle perched high upon a rocky crag. And while this was true enough, there were many which, over in England, would have been called country houses, and like Downton Abbey were mansions forming the centre of an estate. The house with a succession of magnificent state rooms, including a library, redolent of both beeswax and the scent of pine logs, all kept warm in winter by large tiled stoves, with floors of polished wood, save of course for the flagstones paving both the entrance hall and the chapel. A central courtyard, stables, and a great number of outbuildings with beyond the house both orchards and fields. And Rosenberg, its massive, ochre coloured walls punctuated with regimented rows of double windows, shut fast in winter, ferned and flowered with frost, all nestling beneath a group of steeply sloping red tiled mansard roofs, peppered with chimney stacks, and with its magnificent views towards the distant Alps, was one of these.

Hearing footsteps, Friedrich came out onto the landing, embellished with its decorative panels and medallions of sculpted plaster, lined too with portraits of past members of his own family, as well as several pairs of stags' antlers, reminders of past shoots held here in the old days before the Great War and the collapse of the Empire. Standing between the quartet of richly gilded lighted lamps, resting his hands on the coldness of the marble balustrade, gazing down into the hall, Friedrich saw only the retreating form of Feist, the butler.

Given the lateness of the hour, Friedrich was worried. Understandably so.

After all, he had not wanted Edith to make this last minute trip into Vienna on Christmas Eve. Especially with darling Max in tow. And, not only on account of the threat of yet more snow falling. More importantly, there had been vague, as yet, unconfirmed reports of armed clashes taking place on the streets of the capital between members of the Heimwehr, the Home Guard or militia, and those determined to try and overthrow the government of Chancellor Buresch in a _putsch_.

Or was that really the case?

These days, given the state of things here in Austria, with all of the various political factions, many of which had come into being only since the end of the war, whether Left, Right or Centre, each of them intent on pursuing their own, widely differing aims, and in the process often resorting to violence to do so, it was well nigh impossible to determine who was supporting, or indeed, opposing whom.

As far as Friedrich was concerned, while he knew he did not want the Nazis to gain power, like many others, he so desperately wanted some stability, an end to all of the uncertainty ... and the continuing descent into both violence and chaos.

* * *

But, had reasoned Edith over breakfast, was not this the way of it ever since the collapse of the Empire back in 1919? Were not the politics of the new Austrian Republic fractious and violent? And were there not often such rumours doing the rounds? And did not most of them turn out to have no more substance than a Jack-o'-Lantern or a Will-o'-the-Wisp? All of which Friedrich had to concede was true enough. So when Edith had insisted that all would yet be well, having learned long ago that if she decided to do something, then gainsaying her only made her even more determined to do what it was she had intended, despite his own misgivings, earlier this morning, Friedrich had let Edith and their young son board the Vienna express.

* * *

Now it was nearly eight o'clock.

And the evening train from the Westbahnhof in distant Vienna was never late.

Only tonight, it was.

 **Author's Note:**

In my take on the Crawleys, the Dowager Countess died in 1926 and the earl of Grantham, in the summer of 1931.

For Tom's bravery at the Shelbourne Hotel, see _Home Is Where The Heart Is_.

For what happened to Danny and why, and for Max and Claire's marriage, see _The White Cliffs of Dover_.

Karl Buresch (1878-1936) lawyer, Christian Socialist politician, and Chancellor of Austria, during the First Republic.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Reverse Gear

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

As Feist made his way back across the darkened, stone flagged hall from answering the telephone, Friedrich came hurrying down the main staircase. A moment later and the two men met beside the beautifully decorated tree which, as was customary, had been erected here in the hall, this very morning.

"Feist, is there any news?"

"That was Weisman, sir. Telephoning from the station, at St. Johann. He informed me that the express from Vienna arrived there punctually at six thirty". The butler paused, clearly uncomfortable with what it was he had to relate. Then, when the old man still said nothing further, Friedrich felt constrained to prompt him.

"And?"

"Sir, Madam and Master Max were not on the train. Nor on the service that followed it".

"I see," said Friedrich tersely. Of course, the two of them should have been home a couple of hours ago, in time for the habitual distribution of presents to the domestic staff on Christmas Eve beneath the tree before the family opened their own in the privacy of the Drawing Room.

"I have taken the liberty of instructing Weisman to remain at the station, in order that he be on hand to meet the last train, due there at nine. Thereafter I told him that he should return here to the _schloss,_ with or without Madam and Master Max. I trust I have your approval, sir?"

Friedrich nodded.

"Yes, Feist. You do".

The butler bowed gravely and withdrew.

Friedrich turned on his heel; walked back past the Christmas tree adorned with a veritable profusion of red and gold glass baubles, glittering in the twinkling lights of a hundred tiny candles, and made his way slowly upstairs. The dignity of his bearing was singularly at variance with what he was feeling. Darling Edith and dear little Max were his very life. Without them - Friedrich raised his head, took in, without seeing the magnificent painted ceiling of the hall, a Baroque masterpiece, like the one in the chapel, by Pellegrini - none of this mattered.

In God's Name, where on earth were they?

* * *

 **Somewhere in the West Riding of Yorkshire, England, July 1915.**

"... not of course that yous be needin' to know this, milady, for sure, but if ever yous need to reverse in a hurry ..."

"I beg your pardon?" Edith turned her head to see Branson's impossibly blue eyes now gleaming with undisguised mirth.

Without bothering to seek her approval, the fair haired Irishman slammed his foot hard down on the clutch, released the pedal, then repeated the procedure in double quick time, before ramming the gear stick into reverse. As he did so, the blue Renault shot backwards at what, had it not been Branson seated there beside her, Edith would have considered to be a reckless, foolhardy, not to say alarming, rate of speed. Quite why she knew it, she couldn't then tell but with **Tom** \- she had learned his Christian name from Anna - sitting next to her, Edith knew she was in no real danger; that all would be well. Nonetheless, she found herself crying out involuntarily, in alarm, grasping hold of his leather gauntlet, as the Renault continued to career backwards along the quiet country lane, before, in a cloud of dust and a shower of leaves, coming to an equally sudden stop on the edge of the ford beside the track leading down to Windrush Farm.

"There, milady, no real harm done, for sure". Branson patted her arm gently and, he hoped, reassuringly, something which, ordinarily would have been considered grossly impertinent.

"Yes, well ... Thank you, Branson". Somewhat flustered, Edith couldn't begin to think why, after all, the motor had travelled less than a quarter of a mile, she set about attending to her hat which, as the Renault had been reversed at high speed, had slipped backwards off her head, and was now hanging awry. Dear God, I must look a positive fright, Edith thought, ramming her hat firmly back on her head.

Seeing her doing her very best to try and make herself look presentable again, unable to help himself, **Tom** \- Branson - grinned. And despite her own social position and her upbringing, Edith found herself grinning back at him, as from somewhere there now lodged in her mind the unshakeable belief that both her destiny and that of this earnest, softly spoken Irishman, were somehow inextricably linked.

A few moments later, along with its two occupants, the Renault was on its way back to the abbey, with Branson driving far more sedately, and at a speed of which even the Dowager Countess would have strongly approved. And, as the motor bowled along the road in the warm sunshine of the July afternoon, wending its way through a patchwork of lanes, the two seated inside continued to sit together in a contented and companionable silence.

It was only as the village hove into view, as the Renault purred up School Bank and then crested the rise, that another thought now assailed Edith; one which equally refused to shift itself from her inner consciousness: the fact that darling Sybil always spoke of Tom Branson in the very highest regard.

* * *

 **On the River Danube, Republic of Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

 _An der schönen, blauen Donau ..._

When Johann Strauss, composer of arguably the most famous waltz ever to be written, described the River Danube as both beautiful and blue, he must have been speaking figuratively.

For in reality, on this snowy Christmas Eve, the sluggish, snow flecked waters of the broad thoroughfare that was the river were cold, grey, and choked with ice. So much so, that as the steam tug chugged its way westwards against the current, heading upstream towards the little town of Ybbs, while towing behind it a string of barges heavily laden with timber, passing by on the north bank of the river the hamlet of St. Johann, the speed of the tug slowed markedly. In fact, was reduced to little more than a crawl by the thickness of the ice, as the tug charted a cautious passage, weaving its way between the many floes, at a veritable snail's pace. Indeed, so slow did its rate of progress now become, that at times the vessel scarcely seemed to be moving at all. And those on board it began to wonder, in all seriousness, if they would ever be home in time for Christmas.

* * *

 **Lyons Corner House, Coventry Street, London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

"A Nippy!" laughed Claire in answer to Max's question.

"Pardon?" He raised an enquiring brow.

"The waitresses here. _Nippys_. That's what they're called. And in all the other Corner Houses too. I suppose, because they're expected to be quick about their duties!"

"Then ... very aptly named!" Max grinned; nodded his head appreciatively in the direction of their waitress. A pert young girl, trim and neat in her starched cap, black Alpaca dress and white square apron and who, once both Claire and he had decided what it was they wanted to eat, a decision in which they themselves had been helped to make not only by being informed what of the menu was actually available but also too by what then fell within their budget, had, in record time, taken down their order for supper and was now disappearing at a rapid rate of knots towards the counter.

They were seated at a table for two, in a small alcove which thus afforded them an unexpected, if slight, degree of privacy, close to one of the windows overlooking Rupert Street. With this being Christmas Eve, nearly every available seat here on the ground floor of the Corner House was taken, and, what with the orchestra playing a lively succession of tunes, along with the constant chatter, and all the other noise, both Max and Claire, each of whom was softly spoken, had to raise their voices in order to hear what it was that the other was saying.

Heedless of propriety, taking full advantage of where they were sitting, Claire had kicked off her shoes under the table. Reaching down, she proceeded to massage her aching feet, something which Max often did for her in the privacy of their flat and at which he was surprisingly good. Not that she could ever imagine her dad ever having done the same for her late mother. Sitting up, Claire now stifled a yawn.

"Sorry! I don't know where on earth that came from!" She blushed. Max was delighted.

"Had a long day?" he now asked, solicitously.  
Claire nodded.

"Yes, rather". She sighed and smothered yet another yawn. "Then earlier this afternoon, while we were in the operating theatre, watching an appendectomy ... that's the surgical removal of someone's appendix ... "

Seeing Max wince, Claire stopped in mid sentence. For someone whose wife was training to be a doctor and who himself had spent much of his young life in and out of hospital, clinics, and sanatoria, when it came to discussing matters of a medical nature, like his late grandfather, Robert Crawley fifth earl of Grantham, Max was decidedly uncomfortable.

"Sorry, darling, I didn't mean to make you feel out-of-sorts".

"Es spielt keine Rolle," he said and grimaced.

Claire reached forward over the tablecloth which, while clean, had been darned several times and had clearly seen better days but then, after all, there was a war on; covered Max's hands with her own. A moment later, she saw his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. He grinned.

"Thank you".

"Better now?"  
"What do you think?" he asked as their fingers entwined.

"Speaking professionally, I'd say your recovery was nothing short of miraculous!"

At that, Max laughed out loud.

"Perhaps".

There was no denying it, she thought; he really was very good looking. Half rising, Claire reached over and kissed Max full on the mouth. Lounging back, he smiled up at her, then watched, clearly amused, while Claire seated herself demurely back on her chair.

"So, I'll take that as a _yes_ then, shall I?" she asked and with a warm smile to match his own.

"Maybe. But, just to make sure ... that I'm quite recovered ... kiss me again!"

"Max!"  
"Go on. I know you want to. And besides, it's Christmas!"  
"You're very full of yourself tonight, aren't you, Herr Schönborn?" She laughed.

"Maybe. Claire, Liebling, kiss me?" he pleaded.

At his heartfelt entreaty, she leaned over and then gave him the briefest, daintiest of pecks on his cheek.

"There now. Satisfied?" she asked, knowing full well what his answer would be, before resuming her seat yet again.

"I suppose so. I'll just have to be patient. And I will be. At least for now. After all ... after last night, I do know just how much you want me!"

"Max!" Claire blushed.

On occasions, he could be so infuriatingly pleased with himself. Rather more to the point, not that Claire would ever admit it, to anybody save Max, and even then certainly not in public, he was right. For, when they were together in the flat, it was often she who initiated their lovemaking; knowing all too well that in this part of their marriage, Max was never more eager than when, as had been the case last night, it was Claire who showed before he did that **she** wanted **him**. And while at times Max might well appear very sure of himself, in reality, he was very modest and it continued to be an unfailing matter of infinite wonder to him that he himself could evoke in Claire such a level of desire.

"And don't pretend that you don't!"

"Pax!" cried Claire.

"Pax nothing!"

"So then, what is it that you have to tell me?" asked Claire deftly changing the subject.

"The other night, do you remember me telling you that we'd news come through of a missing British pilot who had turned up safe and sound in Gibraltar?"

Claire nodded.

"For a moment there, I thought you had news of Rob ..." Here her voice faltered and Max saw Claire turn and glance sadly towards the heavily taped glass of the nearest window, beyond which could be seen the mass of cheerful, smiling crowds thronging the pavement. A moment later and she had turned back to him. "Honestly, Max, I don't know how on earth Saiorse is managing to keep going, how she must be feeling, what with Rob ... I know if I was in her shoes ... If it was you who ... I couldn't even begin to ..."  
"Well, that's just it, Claire. You see, the fact is, the pilot out there in Gibraltar ..."

* * *

 **Vienna, Republic of Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

When, shortly after four o'clock, Edith and Max, along with little Fritz in tow, left the Central Café bound for the Westbahnhof, in a taxi cab hailed for them by one of the waiters, it was snowing heavily. Unsurprisingly therefore, although much to Max's disappointment, of the mysterious, hitherto unseen zither player there was now neither sight nor sound; none whatsoever. Even so, despite Edith's unvoiced misgivings as to whether, by the time they reached St. Johann, the narrow, winding road up to Rosenberg would still be passable, for the present, with mother and son seated comfortably in the back of the taxi, all went well, until that was, they were almost within sight of the imposing buildings of Vienna's Westbahnhof.

And then, it happened.

Suddenly, completely without warning, here on the icy, snowbound cobbles of the street, the motor slewed violently to a stand, all but throwing Max and Edith from their seat, sending the few purchases which she had from shops along the Graben, cascading to the floor, and in the process waking from the quietness of his peaceful slumbers, a decidedly disgruntled little Fritz, as an unexpected avalanche of Edith's last minute Christmas purchases, thudded down about him.

With her gloved hand, Edith rapped peremptorily on the glass of the partition which separated them from the driver.

"What on earth do you think you're doing ..." she began; then broke off what it was she was saying as from somewhere, through the veil of thickly falling snow, faintly at first, and then with every minute that passed, growing louder and louder, there came the unmistakable sound of shooting. Now, on either side of the cab, through the grey murk, scurrying along the icy pavements, Edith glimpsed, albeit dimly, singly, in twos and threes, and in small groups, hurrying figures, civilians, men, women, and even children, all of them hastening along the street so as to escape whatever it was that was happening in the direction of the railway station, and in search of whatever cover they could find: in doorways, behind lampposts, even crouching beside a hastily abandoned tramcar.

* * *

Here in the now stationary cab, the young dark haired driver half turned in his seat. Seeing his face again, Edith was reminded forcibly of the fact that when but a short while earlier he had seen the two of them into the motor, several things about him had struck her as decidedly odd. Firstly, he was very well spoken for a cabbie and, although polite enough, not at all deferential, while his knowledge of Vienna seemed to be decidedly sketchy. Indeed, when the waiter had informed the cabbie that the lady and her son were for the Westbahnhof, Edith had overheard the young man then ask the waiter as to which was the quickest way to the railway station. Understandably, the waiter had looked somewhat askance but, nonetheless, had all the same, then proceeded to give the necessary directions.

However, Edith herself had not been unduly surprised. For, given the worsening economic situation here in the country, with the collapse but a few months earlier, in May, of the _Creditanstalt_ , and which, up until then had been the largest bank in the Empire, when many had lost a very great deal of money, all manner of people, even some of the upper classes, had no choice but to turn to all manner of jobs in order to try and make ends meet.

* * *

For one brief instant, the fledgling cabbie seemed to be on the point of saying something but then, instead, without a single word, his face white with fear, heedless of Edith's shouted cry of protest, he scrambled out of his seat, vaulted over the door, then fled on foot, running, slipping, and sliding, down the nearest alleyway, leaving the occupants of the cab, its engine still running, completely marooned in the middle of the road. From up ahead, there came the sound of guttural shouts, while shadowy figures could be glimpsed, running down the street, accompanied by the sound of yet more shooting.

At the sudden, unexpected turn of events, Edith shook her head in utter disbelief. This really was quite intolerable. And while this kind of thing might be expected on the dusty streets of Baghdad in far off Mesopotamia, that it should happen here, on the broad, paved thoroughfares of Vienna, once the capital city of a vast, sprawling empire which, at its greatest extent, had been the second-largest country in all of Europe, certainly not.

"Mama, please, what's happening?" cried Max in alarm, now grabbing hold of Fritz and pulling him up from off the floor, where he lay surrounded by a litany of Edith's fallen packages, before cuddling the little dog tightly to him.

"Don't worry, darling. I don't know but I intend to try and find out".

Now, in a manner which, had he been here to witness it, would have earned her Friedrich's unequivocal approval, Edith promptly snorted her disgust; threw open the door of the taxi and climbed down into the street. As she did so, a young man, beaten and bloodied, appeared out of the veil of falling snow and promptly collapsed in an unconscious heap at her feet. A moment later two other men of a similar age, by their appearance, Orthodox Jews, presumably from somewhere in Leopoldstadt, their dark clothes heavily soiled with snow, and, despite the cold, bareheaded, the both of them breathless, perspiring heavily, and clearly terrified, were sheltering beside the cab.

"Please ... will you help us ... the _Heimwehr_ ..."

* * *

 **Lyons Corner House, Coventry Street, London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

"I've an idea," said Max, between chewing a mouthful of what on the menu had been described as Lancashire Hotpot and taking a sip of scalding tea. The Hotpot certainly lived up to its name but, while quite palatable, what exactly it was made from was open to question. Meat, potato and onions certainly. Or rather potato and onions with a little meat thrown in but exactly what kind of meat, Max decided it was unwise to speculate further.

"Which is?" asked Claire, tucking in to her plaice and chips.

"Well, now that you know about Rob, with this being Christmas Eve, before we go back to the flat tonight, I think we should go somewhere. Really celebrate".

"Where do you have in mind?"  
"Take in a show, or perhaps we could ..."

"But what about the cost? Max, we said ..."

"I know what we said, but wouldn't you like to? I mean, just this once?"  
"Of course! A show!" Claire's eyes sparkled.  
Max nodded.

"Yes".

"Well, what about the Windmill? It's not far".

"Perhaps. Or maybe we could ..."

"Maybe we could what?"  
Max grinned impishly.

"Wait and see!" he said with a laugh. Thereafter, Max refused resolutely to be drawn any further on the subject of where they might go and, despite Claire doing her very best to wheedle out of him what it was he had in mind, all of her efforts came to naught.

* * *

 **Vienna, Republic of Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

It had been Edith's unswerving ability to stay cool and level headed in situations where, doubtless, most other women would have gone to pieces which had first brought her to the attention of Friedrich. That had been back in 1922, in Egypt, in the Valley of the Kings. He would never forget the very first time he saw her, an unknown Englishwoman, dressed in a white shirt, serviceable breeches, and knee length boots, who had the misfortune to find herself confronted by a cobra poised and ready to strike. Unlike most women who would have screamed and fled, watched admiringly by Friedrich and several other European members of the archaeological expedition, completely undeterred, calmly and quietly, Edith had first remained standing exactly where she was, before backing slowly away, until well out of range, leaving the snake to slither off into the sand.

* * *

Confronted by the enormity of what was happening, Edith's composure and her British sang-froid now stood her in good stead. She nodded hurriedly towards the rear of the taxi.

"Your friend ... both of you, help him up". The two men assisted the third to his feet; then, having opened the door, settled him quickly on the rear seat of the taxi. From within the cab, Edith saw Max's frightened face peering out at her.

"My son," she explained. "It's all right my darling. There's a man here who's been hurt ... we have to help him".

Wide-eyed, Max nodded, shrank back against the opposite door of the taxi, while the injured young man was settled none too comfortably on the seat beside him.

"My father's a doctor. He'll patch Aaronovitch up," explained one of the other two. "We live on Taborstraße. That way. Over there". He pointed through the still falling snow.

"In Leopoldstadt?" asked Edith. She knew of it of course, through friends who were Jewish, but had never been there herself; had had no cause to do so.

"Yes. _Mazzesinsel"._

"Do either of you know how to drive?" Both shook their heads.

"Well, I do! Now, one of you over there". Edith nodded quickly to the seat beside where the driver sat. "The other ... out here on the running board. I'm sorry but there's nowhere else".

Hardly had Edith climbed into the driver's seat, and the two men settled themselves where she had instructed, than members of the _Heimwehr -_ whom Friedrich referred to disparagingly as _young thugs in uniform_ \- appeared out of the murk. Seeing their quarry, a guttural cry went up, followed by a hail of bullets, two of which struck the bonnet of the taxi, then ricocheted and hit windscreen. While most of their force was therefore spent, made brittle by the winter's cold, the glass crazed, then shattered. Fortunately most of it fell outwards, instead of into the cab, thus sparing Edith from being showered with glass. Not that at the time she paid it much attention, trying desperately as she was to recall what was it Tom had shown her all those years ago.

Yes, that was it ...

Quickly turning her head, Edith smiled fondly back at Max.

"Darling, everybody, hold on!" For his part, young Max didn't need to be told twice; grabbed the leather strap of the door.

Sparing a fleeting thought for her Irish brother-in-law, who while Tom was yet the chauffeur at Downton had taught her how to drive, remembering now what it was she had seen him do on a long gone summer's afternoon on a quiet country lane in the West Riding of Yorkshire, Edith promptly slammed her left foot hard down on the clutch, released it, then swiftly repeated the procedure, before ramming the gear stick of the stationary cab into reverse.

With one of the two young men now seated beside her, the other crouching down low on the running board, and their bloodied, injured friend lying inside sprawled across the back seat beside Max who, with one arm round Fritz, was hanging on for dear life with his other hand to the leather strap of the door, the motor cab shot backwards. While Max knew that Mama could drive, never for a single moment had he suspected she could do something like this. With bullets peppering the snow, hitting the brass work and bouncing off the body of the taxi, in a cascading deluge of ice and snow, pursuing a highly erratic course while, unknown to Max, his mother now sought desperately to try and maintain control of the careering motor, the cab reversed at high speed down the length of the snowbound street, in its wake hotly pursued by uniformed men of the _Heimwehr_.

 **Author's Note:**

When, in 1924, the directors of J. Lyons and Company decided to update their image, the name they chose for their waitresses was "Nippy", presumably, as Claire suggests to Max, because they provided a quick and speedy service. Other names had been under consideration including "Sybil-at-your-service"! The Coventry Street premises were enormous and could seat 5,000 diners, spread out over four or five floors.

Pax - not a misprint for Max as someone kindly suggested but a call for a truce!

Vienna's Westbahnhof was virtually destroyed at the end of WWII and subsequently completely rebuilt.

Lancashire Hotpot is a stew, originating from Lancashire, made of lamb or mutton and onion, topped with sliced potatoes and baked in a heavy pot.

The Windmill - a variety and revue theatre, known for its nude tableaux, the Windmill continued to stage performances throughout the war, even at the height of the Blitz; its proud motto being _We never closed_.

Leopoldstadt, situated in the heart of Vienna, was where, until the Holocaust, most of the city's Jewish population resided. Only a handful of Jews escaped deportation and extermination in the concentration camps.

 _Mazzesinsel -_ a nickname bestowed on Leopoldstadt because of its large Jewish population. It referred to the unleavened bread eaten during Passover.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

The Salzburg Express

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

As it had done before already, several times this evening, the telephone on Friedrich's desk tinkled yet again; indeed, annoyingly so. Nonetheless, just as he had done earlier, once more having set down his pen, he laid aside the draft of the report he was writing for the Austrian Archaeological Institute on the continuing excavations at Jericho on the west bank of the Jordan in Palestine. Not that he had achieved much, if indeed anything at all, in the last hour or so by way of making any progress; understandably so, being unable to concentrate. Friedrich now reached for the receiver and picked it up.

"Yes?" he barked, annoyed with himself for having for the first time tonight allowed his frayed nerves to overcome his customary good manners and unfailing courtesy. Something which both he and Edith had sought to instill in young Max. As before, reply came there none. Slamming the receiver back down into its cradle, rising to his feet, Friedrich strode purposefully across the floor of his study and flung wide the door. Only to be confronted by Feist, his right hand raised, poised, ready to knock. For a moment neither Friedrich nor the old butler said anything, as one silently regarded the other. Then Feist lowered his hand.

"Sir?" he enquired.

"Was that the telephone, Feist?"

The old butler shook his head dejectedly. While it was, of course, not his business to approve, or indeed disapprove, of the relationship between the master and madam, privately, Feist did not accede to the domestic arrangements above stairs which he knew only too well, made the household here at Rosenberg the subject of much gossip and tittle tattle down in the village, however much he himself might try to ignore the wagging tongues. Nonetheless, madam was a kindly mistress and, Master Max was a delightful little lad, for all that he was so often ill. Therefore in the broad scheme of things, Feist wished neither of them ill; hoped there was a rational, satisfactory explanation to account for the fact that neither had been on board the express from Vienna when earlier this evening it had pulled into St. Johann and that neither of them had come to any harm.

"No, sir. I was coming to inform you. It's the line, sir. The snow ..." began Feist. He spread his hands expansively, so as to indicate what he meant. Friedrich nodded his head in understanding, recalling to mind that the self same thing had happened before and about this very same time last year too, when an especially heavy fall of snow had brought down the telephone line to the house.

"Indeed".

"I have given instructions for the path leading to the house to be cleared again, sir". Only half hearing, absent-minded, Friedrich nodded; glanced out of the window and saw the night was now nothing but a mass of whirling snowflakes. Thoroughly dejected, he turned away from the window.

* * *

 **Piccadilly Circus, London, England, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

Supper over, arm in arm, happy and content, Claire resting her head against Max's shoulder, she much intrigued to see what it was he had in mind - certainly he seemed to know where it was he was taking her - having left the Corner House on Coventry Street, they set off together, through the milling crowds thronging busy Piccadilly Circus, one and all seemingly oblivious to the fact that the warning sirens could sound at any minute, heralding yet another air raid.

For, even if the worst of the bombing here in London was over, at least from the present, the Blitz having ended several months earlier, back in May, there were still occasional air raids on the capital, whether by accident or by design, as indeed there were elsewhere, on other cities and towns up and down the length and breadth of the country, as well as all manner too of false alarms, as had been the case earlier this very evening. And indeed the previous night when they had been in bed together in the flat. Here in public, as she thought about that particular encounter, the images it evoked made Claire blush ...

* * *

 **Old Montague Street, Whitechapel, London, England, 23rd December 1941.**

While for much of the month it had been comparatively mild, just this last week had seen the weather turn very much colder, with frosts at night. Yet, despite it being a chill night, here in the flat, the gas fire remained unlit, the sheets and blankets of the double bed lay discarded in a tangled heap upon the bare wooden boards of the floor, while naked, bathed in sweat, the two of them moved as one upon the bed above.

"Liebling!" Max thrust himself into her again.

"Yes, Max! There! Yes!" Claire cried out, her arms wrapped around Max, clasping her legs about his back ever more tightly, drawing him in still further, as he, mouthing her name, along with all manner of endearments in German, some of which she knew by heart, others which Claire did not, Max pushed himself yet deeper inside her. She felt his pace quicken still further and knew he was almost at the point of his release; well aware her own was near too.

And then it happened.

Here, in their shabby, rented flat on Old Montague Street in Whitechapel, a far cry from the vanished splendours of Rosenberg, suddenly and without warning, beyond the threadbare curtains of the bedroom, night was turned into day, illuminated by the beams of many searchlights which now began insistently moving back and forth, crossing and re-crossing the blackness of the night sky, in weaving skeins of white light, before and but a moment later there came the mournful wail of the air raid siren.

"Scheiss!" exploded Max, giving way to the rare use, at least on his part, of a swear word; something which he knew his parents, especially Mama - why think of her now - would decidedly not have approved. "Nein, nicht schon wieder!"

"Oh, why won't you go away and leave us alone?" pleaded Claire turning her head unwillingly towards the window.

Given the fact that the siren was now sounding, that Whitechapel, and indeed Old Montague Street itself, had suffered badly in the Blitz, with bombs also having exploded close by in both Brick Lane and on Casson Street, by rights both Max and Claire should have been out of bed, dressing hurriedly and then on their way, out of the flat. And, if past air raids were anything to go by, their journey along the street to the shelter would be accompanied by all manner of explosions, the crackle and roar of flames, the sound of falling masonry, glass shattering, the sickening stench of burning, the enormous clouds of dust, and the heavy thump of anti aircraft fire, along with the oscillating beams of the search lights, lighting up the night sky.

But air raid or no, it was now too late.

Instead, heedless of their own safety, with both of them having passed beyond the point of no return, arching herself against him, Claire felt Max spill himself into her before, but an instant later, she too reached her own release. A moment later Max collapsed down upon her, his lips eagerly and greedily seeking her own, as warm and sated, they fell together in a tangle and welter of limbs.

While from outside there came the ever insistent wail of the air raid siren, accompanied by the sound of doors opening, being slammed shut, of raised voices and the steady tramp of footsteps, of the other residents of the house, as they, rather more mindful of the risks of staying put where they were, trooped dutifully down the bare, uncarpeted steps of the stairs, heading for the safety of the air raid shelter on nearby Whitechapel Road.

* * *

 **Vienna, Republic of Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

The madcap reversal at speed of the bullet scarred taxi finally came to an end in a quiet side street, at some distance from the Westbahnhof, by which time, thankfully, the members of the Heimwehr had long since given up their pursuit in search, of easier prey.

"So," said Edith calmly, becoming practical, and turning to face the young Jew seated beside her. "Where to now?"

* * *

 **Old Montague Street, Whitechapel, London, England, 23rd December 1941.**

Sometime later, seemingly with no bombs having been dropped, at least not here in Whitechapel, the All Clear now sounded.

Having taken the decision to stay where they were, here in the flat, with the bed remade a while since, they were snuggled together, Claire lying within the circle of Max's strong arms. They had been chatting about their childhood; setting aside Max's ill health, realising once again, just how different their respective upbringings had been.

"Well, then," Max whispered as he continued to play with a stray, loose tendril of her hair, "what about ..."  
"What about what?" echoed Claire, now turning in his arms so as to face him.

"If after all of that, we begin again?" he suggested with a delightfully, roguish, boyish grin, as, a moment later, she felt the proof of his growing arousal harden against her thigh.

"Why, Max, I thought you'd never ask!"

"Well, now I have!" He laughed aloud. Rolled over on top of her and began nudging her legs apart.

A short while later, downstairs in what, before the elegant town house had been crudely split up into flats, had been the hall, the heavy front door swung open and those residents who had taken the precaution of heeding the air raid siren, now trooped wearily back inside. While those who lived on the ground floor, without further ado, went straight to their rooms, the rest had to climb the stairs, their progress back to bed, to resume their interrupted slumbers, completely unheeded by the young couple in the front second floor flat.

* * *

 **Taborstraße, Leopoldstadt, Vienna, Republic of Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

"There. Stop there".

Sitting beside Edith in the front seat of the taxi, Mankiewitz, who, after they had thrown off their pursuers, had told Edith his name on their way over here from the Westbahnhof, now pointed to the front of a building halfway down the street in which they were now, some distance beyond the elegant façade of the _Produktenbörse,_ but close to where, through the falling snow, there could be glimpsed the onion domed spire of a church.

Here in Leopoldstadt, in the Second District of the city, sandwiched, as it were, between both the Danube and the Danube Canal, accessible only by crossing one of the numerous bridges which linked it with the rest of Vienna, Edith did as she had been instructed; brought the battered taxi promptly to a stand in front of a four storey building, the ground floor of which was given over to a group of small shops, among them that of a tailor and a hatter. Saw too that the windows of all of the row of shops were daubed with posters. Although the printing was crude, the message was clear: _Juden raus!_

Turning away, Edith looked over her shoulder at Max; smiled encouragingly at her young son.

"Don't worry, darling. Soon we'll be on the train and then on our way back to Rosenberg".

Young Max nodded; stifled a yawn and cuddled Fritz, more to give him some sense of reality than because Frittie was in need of a hug. Even so, despite all that had happened to them ever since they had left the café on Herrengasse, on this, the strangest of Christmas Eves, Max was possessed of the unshakeable belief that so long as Mama was here, somehow, in the end, everything would turn out all right. Meanwhile, Edith cocked an ear, as frc. somewhere above her, but very close at hand, there came the distinctive singsong of Jewish menfolk at their prayers.

* * *

While Petschel helped the badly beaten Aaronovitch out of the rear of the taxi, Mankiewitz clambered down onto the pavement and then rapped smartly on a side door. A moment later the same door opened to reveal a lighted hallway through which Aaronovitch was now taken and where a hurried conversation then ensued between Mankiewitz and another man. A moment later, accompanied by the other, Mankiewitz came back to the taxi.

"This is Mayer". The other man nodded curtly at Edith. "I've told him what's happened tonight, what you did for us back there. Mayer and his friends in the _Jüdische_ _Selbstwehr_ will see both you and your son safely across the city, as far as the Westbahnhof. From there, I'm afraid you're on your own".

" _Jüdische_ _Selbstwehr_?"

* * *

Edith recalled Herr Kuffner having made brief mention of the very same name, when she and Friedrich, along with Max, had all visited the Ottakringer Brewery just last year. From what she remembered of it, _Jüdische_ _Selbstwehr_ was a shadowy organisation, for which, if she remembered it rightly, Herr Kuffner did not have very much time. Had, after referring to it, then said something enigmatic: _Treffen Sie Feuer mit Feuer._ That for the Jewish community here in Vienna, meeting fire with fire, would only lead to yet more trouble. Far more sensible, had said Herr Kuffner, to keep all their heads down, and wait for better times.

For her part, not only because both she and Friedrich kept themselves very well informed but also from the letters she - they - received regularly at Rosenberg, from darling Tom, and also from dearest Matthew, commenting on what was happening in Europe, more especially in Germany, in Austria and in Italy, Edith was not so sure. Thought that for the Jews here in Austria as elsewhere in what had been the sprawling territories of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, it was very unlikely that things would ever improve.

* * *

Mankiewitz nodded again.

"Here in Mazzesinsel, indeed all over Austria, it's open season on us Jews. That attack, on the Café Produktenbörse, two years ago this month ... all because it had a reputation of being a Jewish coffeehouse". Mayer shook his head in disbelief; jabbed his thumb in the direction from whence Edith had driven the taxi, and towards the magnificent building which housed the Agricultural Stock Market.

Edith nodded her head sympathetically.

"Yes, my ... husband and I read about it in the newspapers".

"You're not Austrian, I think?" It was more a statement than a question.

"No, English".

"But your husband ..."

"... is Austrian".

"And both of you kindly disposed?"  
Edith nodded.

Mankiewitz shrugged dismissively.

"You have a saying in English, I think: _a drop in the ocean_. Given what you did tonight, in helping the others and myself, I don't wish to appear ungrateful but for everyone who is prepared to try and do so, there are countless more who are not. That being so, since neither the police nor, for the most part, anybody else will help us, we've no choice but to look to ourselves".

"To yourselves?" queried Edith.  
"By organising street patrols, fighting back, against those bloody thugs in the Heimwehr ... and all the others just like them". Mankiewitz glanced nervously about him, more particularly over at a row of lighted windows on the other side of the street. "Look, it's not safe out here. Not all of our neighbours are well disposed. If you've no objection, I suggest you and your boy come inside, while Mayer and I make the necessary arrangements".

Meanwhile, Mayer straightened up from surveying the damage to the cab.

"We'll have to dispose of this. So make sure that you bring everything inside with you".

Shortly thereafter, along with Fritz and all of Edith's packages, mother and son were standing in the front room of a shabby first floor apartment, overlooking Taborstraße.

"Now, " said Mankiewitz, when he joined them upstairs a few moments later, "having talked things over with Mayer, this is what we're going to do ..."

* * *

 **Shaftesbury Avenue, London, England, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

Here on Shaftesbury Avenue, in the very heart of London's theatre district, as they made their way past the New Victoria, which had only recently re-opened after bomb damage, the press of people was no less than it had been in Piccadilly Circus. Something which, while it did not seem to bother Max in the slightest who, as usual, when he was well, was doing his very best to be jovial and to take her out of herself, nonetheless, worried Claire. After all, a jostle, a push, leading to a trip, a fall, could spell disaster. But Max was having none of it.

"Your know your problem?"

"I have a problem?"

Max nodded emphatically.

"Yes".

"Really?"

He nodded again.

"You worry too much!"

"Do I now?"  
"Yes, you do. You know you do! About me". He assumed a self-satisfied, knowing smile. Claire had seen that look on his face before; many times.

"And is that so very surprising? Max, in case it has somehow escaped your notice, I love you! We're married. If anything was to happen to you, I don't know what I'd ..."  
"No, it hadn't escaped my notice!" His smile deepened still further. "And I feel fine. Perfectly fine!"  
"That's what worries me".

"Why?"

"You know very well why".

"Well, maybe, just maybe, the doctors have all been wrong ..."

"And that somehow you're cured? Max, I know it's Christmas Eve but do you of all people really believe in miracles?"

"Maybe". He grinned again. "After all, wasn't the two of us meeting the way we did last year some kind of miracle?"

"Oh, Max do be reasonable. You know very well that haemophilia isn't like that ..."

"Perhaps it is!" He looked sideways at her and smiled. "After all, with you and me, anything is possible".

It was then that Claire saw his warm smile suddenly fade. Saw him wince.

"Max, darling, what is it? What on earth's wrong?"

* * *

 **River Danube, close to St. Johann, Lower Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

On the river, amid the falling snow, born on the icy wind, there came the scream of a whistle, as the steam tug continued to battle against both the strong current of the river and the ever shifting floes of ice. At the very same time, there now came a mournful shriek of yet another whistle; this, heralding the arrival at St. Johann, of the seven o'clock express from distant Vienna, bound for Salzburg; the very last train from the capital to stop here tonight.

Like those huddled together in the wheelhouse of the tug down there on the river, peering out at the whirling flakes of snow from the windows of the warm carriages, the passengers on board the late running express also now found themselves wondering if they too would ever be home in time for Christmas.

And, as the powerful Class 270 engine at the head of the heavy train now struggled to maintain its grip on the icy rails, as it sought to pull away from St. Johann, and so resume its journey westwards, doubtless many on the express would have shared the opinion, presently being expounded over dinner in the dining car, by Dr. Karl Steiner of the St. Johanns-Spital in Salzburg, to his dear friend and colleague Herr Ebner who intended leaving the train in Linz, if that was, he ever reached there.

Why, wondered Dr. Steiner aloud, setting down his glass of wine, had the express stopped **here** tonight? It remained a complete mystery. The good doctor peered out of the window, in order to try and to see exactly where it was they were - St. Johann. And a total waste of time! For, as Dr. Steiner continued to stare out of the window, by the flickering light of the gas lamps it could be seen that, following its arrival here at St. Johann, no-one had been waiting on the platform to board the express, nor to descend from the train. And now, as the express continued to remain exactly where it was, standing alongside the snow covered platform, it seemed they might all be stuck here at this benighted place for some considerable time to come!

Dr. Steiner pulled out his pocket watch; then shook his head in exasperation. This sort of thing would never have happened in the Old Man's time - by whom he meant the late emperor, Franz Joseph. Not of course that was strictly true but, nonetheless, Dr. Steiner made a mental note to himself that, if he ever reached home in Salzburg, he would write a strongly worded letter to the directors of the Western Railway, expressing his complete dissatisfaction with the present standard of service.

Then, at last, finally, and much to Dr. Steiner's satisfaction, as well as indeed no doubt to that of everyone else on board the train, thanks to the driver and fireman making very good use of the sanders on the locomotive, the wheels of the powerful engine at last regained their hold on the rails. There came another long blast on the whistle and then, the Salzburg express steamed off westwards into the snowy night, leaving behind the isolated station of St. Johann and its deserted, silent, snow shrouded platform.

 **Author's Note:**

The weather in London in December 1941 was as described.

Scheiss - if you need to know what it means, then look it up!

 _Juden raus! - "Jews Out!"_

Jüdische Selbstwehr - Jewish Self-Defence - one of several similar groups formed here in Vienna at this time by members of the Jewish community, to try and protect themselves and their property from attack by members of various right wing organisations.

The elegant café housed in the _Produktenbörse_ had been destroyed by right wing thugs in December 1929 and for the reason Mayer gives to Edith.

New Victoria Theatre - now the Apollo Victoria which, having closed in September 1940, reopened in May 1941.

St. Johanns-Spital or the Landeskrankenhausis the general hospital in Salzburg

The Western Railway (of Austria) between Vienna and Salzburg, opened in 1858.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

A Minor Difficulty

 **Old Montague Street, Whitechapel, London, England, early morning, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

"Penny for them?" asked Claire, after Max had remained uncharacteristically silent for several long minutes.

Lying snuggled beside him in the double bed, she now turned her head to see why it was he hadn't answered her. Saw by the glow from the night light that, clad in just his pyjama bottoms, Max was lying flat on his back with his hands clasped firmly behind his head, staring intently up the ceiling, evidently lost in thought.

Claire followed his gaze.

Somewhere in the grey darkness above their bed, she not exactly saw, but in her mind's eye, conjured, before her, the cracked, damp, mildew stained plaster; along with where parts of the decorative cornice had long since fallen away and were missing, the places where some of what yet remained had been cracked and loosened in the recent bombing, and would doubtless eventually fall and also be lost. This ... this must once have been a beautiful house, she mused, built for a more elegant age.

"I ... I was just thinking ..." Max's quietly voiced reply to her question, came out of the darkness; broke into Claire's own reverie.

"About what?" she asked softly, as she began toying gently with the patch of fine, light hairs nestled in the middle of his chest until that was he captured her hand with his own, brought her fingers swiftly to his lips, then turned to face her.  
"Just how incredibly lucky we've been ... the two of us ... meeting each other, the way we did, falling in love ... everything".

"Yes, we have. Very!"

Claire smiled happily, recalling to mind yet again, the circumstances of their very first meeting, back in June 1940, on a warm summer's day, on the platform of a quiet country railway station, down in distant Devonshire. Since their marriage, over the past year, the two of them had become inseparable, so much a part of each other, that they were like two halves of the same coin. And to Claire, it seemed that with each passing day, her memory of what had gone before Max Schönborn came into her life had grown increasingly hazy; almost as if her very existence before then had been lived by someone other than herself.

Of course, as in so many things, Max had the right of it, which was why, at times, she supposed, he could be so unbearably pleased with himself. Yes, it **had** been a chance in a million, meeting the way they did. And then that he, a member of one of Austria's oldest families, and she, the daughter of an English tenant farmer, should find themselves so ideally matched. Both family and friends had remarked on the seeming incongruity of it all but in reality there was no mystery to it; none whatsoever.

The plain simple fact was that they were right for each another.

They had known it.

Even if, at the time, others hadn't.

Max leaned forward.

They rubbed noses.

Laughed at the silliness of it all, before Max cupped Claire's face in his hands, kissed her, first with passion, and afterwards with an infinite tenderness, as if to say, and subconsciously on his part, that he was here and always would be; even if both of them knew it to be an untruth.

For, as they both knew only too well, his haemophilia was so mercurial, that it posed a constant threat to their happiness, continuing to hang over them like the proverbial Sword of Damocles. Even if, these days, everyone, whether friends or family, especially Max's own parents, had long since recognised that Claire and Max were very well matched ...

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, late May 1941.**

Although for much of the month, it had been unseasonably cold, today had been a beautiful day.

With dinner long since over, and Friedrich settled comfortably in his study, making her way upstairs to read Kurt a bedtime story, now, from the window overlooking the rear garden Edith caught sight of Max and Claire wandering hand in hand, like a pair of star-crossed village lovers, down along the path that led to the orchard. Saw the two of them pause beneath the branches of the first of the apple trees, heavy with blossom, where Max took hold of Claire's right hand and raised it to his lips. Saw her smile. A moment later, saw too, Claire's hands link about Max's neck, drawing his head down, her lips eagerly seeking his.

Edith was many things but a _voyeur_ she was not.

Smiling inwardly to herself, leaving Max and Claire to their tryst, she turned away and climbed to the top of the stairs where, hearing laughter drifting through the open window, up from the garden, Edith paused for a further moment's reflection.

* * *

Looking back, with the knowledge of what was to come, she thought it singularly odd, how soon the die had been cast. After all, this time last year, Max and Claire had not even met. Exactly how long had they known each other, before he had asked her to marry him? Surely, it could only have been but a matter of weeks that had passed, and in a flurry of telephone calls and letters. How was it that in so short a space of time, they came to be so certain of each other? Love at first sight, or so both of them had said, on their first visit here, as man and wife. Edith was not at all sure about that. It sounded far too fanciful a notion. An intense love, assuredly. A ... physical attraction then? Max was undeniably handsome and Claire both alluring and very pretty. So, that too. But the fact remained, that no less a person than Shakespeare had said that _whoever loves, loves at first sight_.

When Max had disappeared from Downton, he had left his parents a letter, in which he told them not to worry, at the same time letting them know that Claire and he were engaged, and that they intended to marry. At Edith's insistence, Friedrich had immediately requested the local constabulary to put in hand enquiries to ascertain the whereabouts of the runaways which in due course involved the London Metropolitan Police, while Matthew made use of discrete contacts of his own that he had up in the capital. But all came to no avail; since, thanks in part to the, as yet, undisclosed financial help Max and Claire had received from Rob, they had been able to cover their tracks very well indeed. Nonetheless, Friedrich and Edith continued to take comfort from the fact that Max had assured them that they would not do anything foolish; by which Edith blithely assumed Max and Claire would not marry without the blessing of his parents and her father.

So then, when Claire had telephoned the abbey, firstly to let the family know that Max had been admitted to hospital up in London, and secondly that they were indeed now married, Edith had been incredulous and then very angry indeed. Or as she had said to Mary at the time, _bloody furious._ Not so much at the act itself, which was by then a _fait accompli_ , but at the deceit of it all. Much as Sybil had been when she had learned about Danny and Carmen; accusing Carmen of manipulating Danny, and he of being weak willed. Tom had disagreed. Said that Danny knew his own mind.

And, as with Sybil, so now it had been the same with Edith who, with a mother's love for her son, insisted that none of this was Max's fault. That it was all Claire's doing; she manipulating him.

* * *

However, sometimes, the truth of something is not what one imagines it to be.

Indeed, is not the whole story.

And, sometimes it is not the truth of it at all.

But that the truth of what had happened between Max and Claire was rather different to what Edith believed, she did not find out until she had travelled all the way up to London by train; a wearying journey of some five or six hours, to see Max, now admitted to St. Thomas's Hospital, where he was about to go through the gruelling process of a blood transfusion. Intending also to give Claire Barton - Schönborn as she now was - a piece of her mind ... and both of them, a lecture on honesty.

* * *

For his part, Friedrich had been rather more sanguine. What was done could not be undone. Max was a man grown. And, like it or not, knew his own mind. Just, he reminded Edith, as Tom had said to Sybil, about Danny. That being so, Friedrich doubted very much that Max had been manipulated. He had simply done what young men often did.

And did that, demanded Edith, the night before she left for London, excuse Max from having acted so deceitfully? Make the manner of what he - **they** \- had done, acceptable? And now this whole business had been made infinitely worse by the admission of Rob and Saiorse; that they had helped to make all of it possible by money loaned to Max by his English cousin.

Friedrich shook his head.

No it did not.

However, setting all of that aside, while he felt certain Edith had no need to be reminded of it, given what they had both been told, years ago, in Austria, as to just how long Max could be expected to live, what would be a good age for him, where was the real harm in this? Following the Anschluss, they had been forced to flee Austria, their life there destroyed, and go into exile, first at la Rosière, and then, with the German invasion of France, to seek safety here in England. There was no telling when this war would end. "Lassen Max hat seinen Weg". Let the boy have his way.

"I rather suspect he has," observed Edith tartly, regretting instantly the peevishness of her remark.

"Indeed," observed Friedrich dryly.

* * *

Edith would be the first to admit that at the time she had been _bloody furiou_ s and angered too by the part Rob and Saiorse had played in helping to bring all of this about. However, she was nothing if not pragmatic and, in due course, especially after she learned the truth of what it was that had happened, that despite Claire's own reservations, Max had led the way in much of this, in due course, Edith came to see the sense in Friedrich's calm assessment of the situation.

With one proviso.

So long as Max and Claire continued to be ... sensible ... in the matter of ensuring there were no children.

* * *

Edith crossed the landing to the door of young Kurt's bedroom, opened the door, to find her younger son sitting up in bed, eagerly awaiting her arrival.

"Now, my darling, shall we finish _Swallows and Amazons_?" she asked brightly.

Young Kurt screwed up his face; shook his head. Edith saw his hand now dive under his pillow, from where he withdrew a book that she had not seen before, and which, when his mother had seated herself beside him on the bed, he now presented to her.

" _The Mask of Fu Manchu_?" Edith looked questioningly down at her younger son.

Kurt nodded excitedly.

"It's Ike's. Well, his brother's actually. He's seen the film. Ike said he told him it was very good! Max read me the first chapter last night, when Papa and you were sitting downstairs talking with Claire".

"Really?"

Kurt nodded again.

From what Edith recalled of the posters she had seen of the film, and that some years ago, now looking at the cover of the book, Edith was not at all sure that Ike's brother should have sent it to him. Nor that Max should have been reading the story to Kurt.

"Please Mama? It's whizzo!"

"Well, let's see ... if I think it's suitable. And if I don't ..." Edith nodded towards where, for the present, _Swallows and Amazons_ lay abandoned on the nightstand.

And with that, Kurt had to be satisfied.

* * *

 **Old Montague Street, Whitechapel, London, England, early morning, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

And, because both Max and Claire were well aware that their time together might well be cut short, this knowledge made them aware that what they had now, was infinitely more precious, and so, they were determined to make every second count. After all, the onset of what might prove to be a fatal bleed could occur at any moment, although, understandably, this was something upon which neither of them chose to dwell.

In this, so far, they had been very fortunate for, apart from one bad episode just after they were married and thereafter several minor bleeds, darling Max had been remarkably healthy. While of course that might change in an instant, for the present, all that mattered, was that he was well again.

And so, safe and secure in the warm circle of Max's arms, Claire soon fell fast asleep. Meanwhile, in the grey half light of early morning, Max glanced up again at the cracked ceiling, and as he did so, he felt the air tingle. The damaged plaster and the missing section of the cornice reminded him of somewhere. Now, just where on earth had that been?

* * *

 **Taborstraße, Vienna, Republic of Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

The dimly lit sitting room of the fourth floor flat in which Max and his mother now found themselves standing was gloomy; crammed with dark furniture, the walls covered with a dull red paper, and the grey plaster of both the ceiling and the damaged cornice, cracked and stained with damp.

Standing huddled together in one corner, close to the tiled stove, were two young girls, a middle aged woman, whom from the facial similarity to the girls, Edith assumed must be their mother, and an elderly man, all of them dark haired, and who were regarding their unexpected visitors with a mixture of both apprehension and a natural inquisitiveness; the drabness of the paper on the wall behind them, along with the gloomy furnishings, making the four frightened, pinched faces of those living here seem whiter than they really were. The old man, bearded, and dressed in black, now stepped forward, and bowed stiffly from the waist. That done, he straightened up, smiled faintly, and held out his hands, palms open, in friendly greeting; now said something in a language which Edith did not understand it falling to Mankiewitz to explain all with an expansive sweep of his right hand.

"These ... these are Aaronovitch's family: his grandfather, his mother, and his two younger sisters. They speak only Yiddish. After his father died, needlessly, in an accident in a factory in Poland, Aaronovitch brought them all here, to Vienna, where they have relatives. With what is happening here in Austria, this seething hatred ... against us Jews, perhaps it would have been better by far if they had stayed in Warsaw. Even so, the old man wishes to thank you ... for what you have done tonight ... for his grandson, Aaron. He says that you are welcome in his house and asks that you both please to sit".

Edith nodded; she and Max now doing as they had been bidden, seating themselves on the hard, unforgiving upholstery of the sofa behind them, while Fritz regarded the birds - a pair of canaries - fluttering in the ornate cage beside the heavily curtained window with undisguised interest. Through the open door, from downstairs there came the sound of yet more voices which, explained Mankiewitz hurriedly, were that of Petschel's father who had been summoned to tend to Aaronovitch's injuries, and those of members of the Selbstwehr. Three others, two young men and also a young woman now entered the room; the two men with revolvers pushed into the waistbands of their trousers. "These are friends," continued Mankiewitz. "Ezra, Jacob, and Rosa. All members of the Selbstwehr. Along with Mayer, they will see you and your son safely across the city as far as the Westbahnhof".

Which was how, here in Vienna, on Christmas Eve, 1931, Edith and Max, along with little Fritz, some time later arrived close to their intended destination of the Westbahnhof, seated in the cab of an old van, belonging to a Jewish bakery in Leopoldstadt, driven by and with an armed escort formed of members of the Jüdische Selbstwehr.

* * *

 **Old Montague Street, Whitehapel, London, England, morning, 24th December 1941.**

Ah, yes. Of course. And along with the realisation of where it was he had been reminded, with dawn now breaking, Max realised that he hadn't slept at all. Now fell to wondering what ever had become of the Jewish family living in that fourth floor flat on Taborstraße in distant Vienna.

* * *

 **Close to the Westbahnhof, Vienna, Republic of Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

In falling snow, not far from the Westbahnhof, the bakery van drew to a stop beside the kerb in a quiet side street where Ezra helped first Edith, and then Max, down from the cab, and onto the pavement, apologising for where they had stopped but explaining that it was far safer this way.

"There may still be members of the Heimwehr about and it doesn't do to draw attention to ourselves," explained Mayer.

Edith nodded her head in understanding.

"Thank you. Perhaps we will meet again, and in better circumstances". She held out her hand. Mayer shook his head.

"If wishes were horses ... But I thank you for your kindness".

"Then ..."

"Shalom," said Ezra softly. "It means ..."  
"I know what it means. _Peace be with you_. Shalom," repeated Edith, causing young Max to look up wonderingly, at his mother.

A moment later, with Mayer and Ezra both having climbed back into the rear of the motor, the doors slammed shut, and the battered van set off whence it had come, back to Leopoldstadt; while, with Fritz trotting beside them on his leash, Max and his mother turned and made their way through the snow, over to the station, Edith praying silently that they would be in time to catch the very last train that evening which would stop at St. Johann.

* * *

 **St. Johann, north bank of the Danube, Lower Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

Seated in the driver's seat of the Mercedes-Benz Mannheim Cabriolet, Weisman looked up from the newspaper which he had been reading by the gaslight spilling out into the station forecourt from the windows of the booking hall; now, sat watching the red glow of the tail lamp of the Salzburg express which, with every moment that passed, grew ever fainter until, when it was little more than a pinprick, as the heavy train rounded the curve west of the station, it vanished altogether, swallowed up by the night and the mantle of falling snow.

Unsurprisingly, with the departure of the express, the lamp in the booking hall was likewise just as suddenly extinguished, the dark drew down, and, save for the moaning of the wind, all that could be heard was the faint rustle of the brittle, frost feathered, ice hung reeds bordering the river. With Madam and her son not having been on the departed express, having pulled on his leather gauntlets, Weisman started up the motor, and prepared to set off back to Rosenberg.

But, as he did so, now, from out of the darkness there came suddenly a series of loud claps and directly ahead of the Mercedes, through the glass of the windscreen, something loomed large and black against the white veil of snow and a heavy shadow swept silently across the path of the car, causing Weisman to brake harshly, so that the motor almost skidded off the frozen surface of the track.

With the motor stalled and now at a stand, thoroughly unnerved, perspiring heavily, his skin as cold as ice, for several long minutes, Weisman continued to sit bolt upright in his seat, until he realised what it was that had so thoroughly unnerved him: nothing more than a heron rising up from off the frozen waters of the lake behind the station.

And then, having recovered himself, just as Weisman prepared to move off again, from out of the darkness there came ...

* * *

 **Just off Shaftesbury Avenue, London, England, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

"You're not ... ill are you?"  
"No, I'm fine," he said but, as she saw, he did so through gritted teeth.

"Max ..."

"I said I'm fine, didn't I? Don't fuss!"

Rarely, if ever, did he raise his voice to her, so much so, realising he was upset, Claire said nothing in reply; concentrated instead on trying to account for the sudden change in Max's usually affable demeanour.

He had been perfectly all right during supper; until that was, she had suggested, since they were so near, that they should go and see the Windmill Theatre where _Revudeville_ , the show that everyone here in London was talking about, was being staged. It was then that Max suddenly went quiet but before Claire could ask him what was the matter, their Nippy had appeared with their desserts, and Max was immediately once more his usual self. Had remained so on their way over here.

Now, just in front of them, stood the much talked of Windmill Theatre itself; a colourful series of posters and photographs making it clear, to one and all, the delights of the show that awaited them within.

Six times each day, six days a week, from noon until ten thirty in the evening, a non-stop series of revues were the order of the day, lighting up the theatre's glass stage; the performers, both male and female, singing and dancing their way energetically through a varied repertoire of exuberant numbers, while young girls posed nude and motionless on stage, their modesty maintained only by an artfully placed fan or a few feathers.

"Oh, Max, do let's go and see it!"

Quite carried away with the excitement of it all, before Max had time to answer her, Claire began walking briskly along the crowded pavement towards where the long queue of those waiting patiently in line to gain admission to the theatre for the next performance, disappeared of sight around the corner. With a distinct sense of shock, suddenly realising that Max was no longer beside her, turning round, Claire saw that he had remained standing exactly where he was.

"Max? What are you waiting for? Come on!"

He shook his head and it was then that Claire saw he appeared not to know where to look. Mystified, she retraced her steps to where he was standing.

"Why ever not?"

"Because ... because I don't like that sort of thing ..."  
"What _sort of thing_?"

" **That**!" Studiously averting his eyes, Max pointed towards one of the theatre posters bearing photographs of two scantily clad girls which left very little to the imagination. "It's ..." He fumbled for the English word and, when it continued to elude him, reverted to his native tongue. " _Erniedrigend_ ," he said forcefully. Fortunately, although Max had spoken in German, with all the different nationalities of servicemen and women on the streets of London, no-one even seemed to notice.

Sensing his frustration, Claire looked at him blankly.

"Max, darling, I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"Girls, they shouldn't ... appear on stage, naked ... dressed like that". She saw him blush.

"Oh, Max!"  
"It's not right".  
"Don't be such a kill-joy!"

"Is that what you think I am?" he asked, clearly offended by her candour.

"At this moment, yes!"

"Well, I know, other than me, I wouldn't want anyone else seeing you naked!"

"Max, darling, apart from you, no-one ever will. And, for your information, I've no intention of joining the Windmill Girls!"

"I'm very glad to hear you say so".

"Then, where's the harm in it?"

Max shook his head.

"I said no, Claire". Realising that he was being serious, she didn't know what to say.

It was just over a year since their marriage, and in that time she had come to discover that Max was many things. Good looking, certainly. And, for all his own, and indeed her, inexperience in matters sexual, had proved to be an ardent and attentive lover. Charming and well mannered too - his parents had seen to that. As well as very good company. Endowed with a devilish sense of humour - to which Danny and Rob would readily vouchsafe. And, thanks to his two cousins, these days also possessed of a ready command of invective in both Irish and English!

But most of all, something which his late grandmother, Cora, Dowager Countess of Grantham would very much have appreciated, when he was well, Max was such great _fun_.

Nonetheless, he could be annoyingly smug, was dreadfully untidy, and could also be stubborn, as he was being now. Added to which, as Claire knew only too well, sometimes he snored in bed.

But, never for a moment, not even in her wildest dreams, would Claire ever have thought Max to be Puritanical; a trait which, if either of them had known it, Max shared with his Uncle Tom who, like his Austrian nephew was an admirer and ardent lover of the female form. But, nonetheless was also acutely embarrassed when confronted by either the nude male or female in art, whether in a drawing, a painting or as a piece of sculpture.

As for Max, as he now explained to Claire, he considered the _tableaux vivants_ as presented by the Windmill Theatre, of motionless nude girls, their modesty hidden only by a few feathers, to be thoroughly degrading, displaying in public something which, in his opinion, should only ever be seen in private.

"I'm sorry, but that's how I feel". Embarrassed, he shuffled his feet; looked down at the pavement.

"Oh, Max!"

"I don't deserve you".

"Don't be silly!"

"I don't, do I?"

"Max, will you look at me, please".

Slowly, he raised his head.

"Claire ... Look, I know you'd like to go and see the show. And I don't want to be a ... what was it you called me? Oh yes, a kill-joy, but it's not me".

"If you'd really rather not go in, then we won't".

"You'd do that? For me?"  
"Well, just this once!" Claire burst out laughing. Shamefaced, Max ghosted a smile.

"Liebling, I'm sorry".

"Don't be". She linked her arm through his. "Anyway, I thought you were the one who said something about us going out and celebrating?"

"Yes!" Max grinned.

"So, just what exactly did you have in mind?"

"Well ..."

* * *

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, late on Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

The pallid yellow beams of a pair of headlights slicing through the ever falling flakes of snow, followed swiftly by the sound of a motor drawing to a stand on the white fast gravel at the front of the house brought Friedrich hurrying back to the window, just in time to see Weismann opening the door of the motor and, stepping down from inside it, Edith followed immediately by dear little Max.

Saw Edith scorning Feist's hasty offer of an umbrella. Saw her pointing instead towards the house, presumably telling the elderly butler that he should hurry back inside. Now saw mother and son scurrying up the snow covered path towards the front door, followed in turn by Weisman proceeding at a more sedate pace, laden down as he was with packages. At that, Friedrich had to smile; dear Edith - whatever the time of year, she never came back from Wien without making some kind of purchase; probably on the account of the fact that when she was on an excavation out in the Near East, there was little to be bought, whether it be in Baghdad, Damascus or Jerusalem.

With Feist having opened wide the front door, a blast of cold air and a flurry of snowflakes drove into the palatial hall, followed quickly in their wake by Edith and Max, he with Fritz huddled in his arms.

"You must both be frozen through. Come in and get warm this instant". With Max now having set Fritz down on the floor, Friedrich pulled Edith and his son to him; held both of them in a tight embrace.

"Liebling! I was so very worried".

"I tried to telephone the house, from the station, but I couldn't ..."

"The line is down. The snow ... Friedrich ruffled Max's sandy hair. "As for you, young man, it's high time you were in bed and fast asleep. Now, upstairs with Frau Schmidt this instant!"

Having said good night to his parents and then to Fritz, who Feist took below stairs, Max did as he was bidden. Accompanied by his governess, he set off up the shallow steps of the curving marble staircase. But then, suddenly, he turned and ran back to the balustrade, from where he smiled down happily at both his parents.

"Shalom," he said simply.

"Shalom", replied his mother, causing Friedrich to stare in wonderment, first at Edith, and then at the retreating form of his young son.

* * *

Understandably, in view of what had happened, the opening of Max's Christmas presents and the giving of the same to the staff was deferred until the morrow. Then, with Max tucked up snugly in bed and with Fritz dozing contentedly on the eiderdown at the feet of his young master instead of below stairs in his basket in the kitchen - after what they had been through together tonight, Edith hadn't the heart to deny Max having the little dog with him in his bedroom - she and Friedrich sat companionably together beside the tiled stove in the Drawing Room. Each of them was sipping the warming raspberry drink which had been served to them in silver tumblers by a white gloved Feist.

"So, what in the world happened? Why weren't you on the express?"

"Eine kleine Schwierigkeit. A minor difficulty. No more than that".

"A minor difficulty," echoed Friedrich.

"Nothing to worry about," offered Edith with a wry smile.

"Really?" Friedrich raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Edith nodded.

Then Friedrich smiled.

"So, tell me this. Knowing you as I do, and with Max suddenly speaking in Hebrew, why is it that I find myself not believing you?"

* * *

 **Old Montague Street, Whitehapel, London, England, morning, 24th December 1941.**

Not that Max ever would know it, but, along with his young wife and baby daughter, Aaron Aaronovitch had left Austria in the spring of 1936 and emigrated to the United States; was now living in California, in Los Angeles, working as a cameraman in the film industry. As for his grandfather, mother and two sisters, the answer to Max's silently posed question, as to what became of the Jewish family living in the fourth floor flat on Taborstraße in Vienna was, along with countless other Jews who had been deported from Austria in 1941: shot in the head, and thrown into an unmarked mass grave, close to Riga, in that part of the Soviet Union, now occupied by the Nazis.

 **Author's Note:**

 _whoever loves ..._ \- Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare.

Edith would not have found _The Mask of Fu Manchu_ suitable for Kurt! Both the book and the film came out in 1932. For Ike - Isaiah Solomons, the Jewish evacuee from the East End of London, with whom Kurt becomes friendly - see _The White Cliffs of Dover_.

Inspired by the Folies Bergère and the Moulin Rouge in Paris, the girls - average age nineteen - posing nude on the stage of the Windmill Theatre were the talk of London. So long as they stayed absolutely motionless throughout each and every performance, the nudity on display could not be deemed obscene and so broke no rules.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Of Bedrooms ... And Favours

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, England, late May 1941.**

" _Swallows and Amazons, Chapter Thirteen. The Charcoal Burners,_ " read Edith. Before continuing, she glanced down fondly at Kurt. "Darling, do you know what a charcoal burner is?"

Kurt shook his head; then sighed. He would very much have preferred for Mama to be reading him _Chapter Two_ of _The Mask of Fu Manchu._ But it seemed that was not to be. At least ...

* * *

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, Christmas Eve, 1931.**

"Really? How very un-gallant of you!" Edith smiled; in jest pointed a denunciatory finger at Friedrich. "To accuse a lady of lying is hardly a gentlemanly act, as I am sure you are well aware. By the way, this was positively delicious". Setting down her now empty silver goblet, she warmed her hands once again before the green tiled stove. Friedrich followed suit. Likewise smiled.

"I didn't say you were lying," he said softly. "That was not my intent. Far from it. And if, somehow, my remark has gone astray, has caused you any offence, then I withdraw it and apologise, unreservedly". He grinned. Both of them knew full well that they were playing a game. "No, what I meant was, that somehow I don't think that you have quite told me the whole story. At least not yet. As to when you choose to do so, that, my darling, of course rests with you. It's your decision. But whether you choose to do so now, or, at some later date, I know that you will". Friedrich's eyes lit with mirth and which, if only for an instant, reminded Edith so very much of darling Tom. "In any event, my dear, like little Max, you must be very, very tired. It's Christmas Eve; it's very late and ..." Seeing Edith now signalling to Feist, that he should refill their goblets, Friedrich broke off what he was saying. "What on earth are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

Friedrich shook his head in disbelief.

"You never cease to amaze me. How your family could never see the remarkable woman they had in their midst".

Edith demurred.

"Save darling Tom and dearest Sybil".

Friedrich smiled.

"Of course. Forgive me, I was forgetting. But you still haven't answered my question". Friedrich glanced up as the butler set down on the table between them the two silver goblets, again brimful with the warming raspberry nectar that had so entranced Edith. "Thank you, Feist. Yes, that will be all".

"Thank you, sir". The elderly butler nodded and discretely withdrew.

The door closed softly behind Feist. Seeing it do so, Edith began her tale.

"You wanted to know what happened tonight? Well, I suppose it all began, when we chanced to meet with Miss Henderson ..."

* * *

 **Westbahnhof, Vienna, Republic of Austria, earlier that same evening.**

Although their journey on foot from where they had left the bakery van had taken them rather longer than Edith would have preferred on account of the icy state of the pavements, having to take care that neither she, nor more importantly Max, took a tumble, along with Fritz, mother and son arrived safely at the imposing building which constituted Vienna's Westbahnhof. Their arrival on the south side of the station, as they walked up the steps through the ornamental portal which led to the ticket hall and the departure platforms, did not, however, go unnoticed.

For, even at this late hour, despite it being Christmas Eve, there were still people about, most those awaiting the arrival of friends or relatives, or else, as were Edith and Max, intent on catching one of the last passenger trains to leave the station tonight. And there were others here too, more especially as Mayer had feared there might be, members of the Heimwehr, instantly recognisable, not from their uniforms _per se_ , but by their green loden hats each of which sported the tail feather of a black grouse and which gave rise to the nickname of _rooster tails,_ bestowed upon them by their opponents who thought them ridiculous. The uniform they wore maybe but that the Heimwehr were a force to be reckoned with, Edith had already seen for herself this evening, and before this night was through, was very shortly to do so again.

* * *

It was the sight of the dachshund trotting down the platform towards the coaches of the waiting Salzburg express which alerted Leutnant Maecker, formerly of the _Tiroler Kaiserjäger_ , now of the Heimwehr, to something which he recalled seeing earlier this evening, in a street not far from here, when they had been on the way back here to the railway station, having long since given up pursuing those bloody Jews. The elegantly dressed woman looked familiar too; although for the present, try as he might, he couldn't quite place her. Still, no matter. He signalled to two of his men who now stepped forward and abruptly barred her path.

Edith looked questioningly at the men before nodding towards the train.

"Would you kindly let me pass. My son and I are for the express".

"All in good time. Your name please".

"Leutnant, what exactly is going on here?" interposed a voice that was clearly used to giving orders; one which brooked no argument.

Edith breathed a sigh of relief. The man in civilian clothes who had come to stand beside her, and most unexpectedly, was someone she knew; a former pilot and a friend of Friedrich's: Kapitän Conrad Wyss.

"This woman has ..."

"Have a care, Leutnant. This _lady_ is known to me. Is the wife of a former officer with the _Kaiserliche und Königliche Luftfahrtruppen_ for whom, along with her son, I will personally vouch. Now, either stand aside and let them pass, or else take me to see your commanding officer. Which is it to be?"

Maecker flushed; nodded curtly to his men who promptly stepped out of Edith's way. Not that Wyss even deigned to acknowledge the fact, as he escorted Edith and Max swiftly along the platform, as far as the last coach of the express. Here Edith turned to face her own Good Samaritan.

"Thank you for that good lie".

Wyss smiled.

Like Friedrich, he too had lost his wife in the epidemic of Spanish 'flu which had swept across Europe in the aftermath of the Great War. But, unlike Friedrich, he had never found anyone to replace his Elisabeth. If he had chanced to meet Edith before she met Friedrich, then ... But life is full of regrets upon which it does not do to dwell.

"It wasn't so very far from the truth".

"What brings you here tonight, of all nights?"  
"My nephew. My sister's boy. I'm meeting him and his wife, off the express from Linz".

"Thank you once again".

"Think nothing of it. Thugs in uniform, is all they are". Wyss jabbed a dismissive thumb towards where the Leutnant and his men were hastily quitting the platform.

"That's what Friedrich says".

"He's right. But I very much fear ... " Wyss lowered his voice.

"Fear what?"  
"That, they and their kind will win. Now, remember me to Friedrich".

"Of course".

"As for you young man, I hope you like your Christmas present".

"My Christmas present?" asked Max, clearly mystified. He stifled a yawn.

Edith was mortified.

"Do please excuse him, it's well past his bedtime. But for ... a minor difficulty ... we should have been on the earlier train and back at Rosenberg".

Wyss smiled.

"Don't apologise, please". He touched the brim of his hat, before helping Edith and Max board the express, remaining on the platform to see the train depart.

"Frohe Weihnachten!"

The whistle blew, and in a cloud of steam and smoke, the train pulled smartly out from beneath the cavernous train shed of the Westbahnhof, bound for distant Salzburg by way of St. Pölten and Linz.

* * *

 **St. Johann, north bank of the Danube, Lower Austria, later that same evening.**

As Weisman continued to peer ahead of him through the falling snow he now glimpsed two bowed figures, those of a woman, she carrying several parcels, and a young boy, he with a dachshund on a leash, the level of the lying snow already well above the small dog's belly, the animal gamboling and snuffling his way through the drifts like a four-legged rotary snowplough.

It was the sight of that ruddy dog, which, at least for Weisman confirmed, the identity of the two people: Madam and her son. The brat with that blasted mutt of his in tow which, even if he was the adored pet of Master Max, was decidedly not in the good books of the chauffeur for, just last week having disgraced himself on the floor of the motor. That regrettable incident apart, Weisman thought Fritz to be a nasty, snappy little thing.

No doubt Weisman would have been astonished to learn that little Fritz, had he been able to express his views, held an equally low opinion of the chauffeur. Fritz considering Weisman to be an exceedingly unpleasant adult male of the human species who was, when he thought there was no-one else was about to see him be so, rather too free with the use of his boots.

* * *

 _ **Somewhere over the Isonzo river, Italian Front, Julian Alps, December 1917.**_

 _Being among those listed on the day's orders to take part in yet another early morning sortie out over the Italian lines, here in his bedroom of the Villa Alba, requisitioned from its owners, in order to provide accommodation for some of the pilots of Flik 41J of the Kaiserliche und Königliche Luftfahrtruppen, he had been awoken unwillingly from his slumbers while it was yet still dark by his batman._

 _Had then tumbled befuddled and groggy - a legacy of having drunk too much brandy the previous night - from the cocooned warmth of his camp bed. Both to wash and shave in the hot water Gruber had brought him in a jug, and then to dress; all by the flickering light provided by a couple of hurricane lanterns. Having hurriedly swallowed a cup of coffee, hot, black, and bitter and eaten the croissants, also brought him by his batman, along with the other four pilots, it was outside, braving the bitter chill of an early December morning and into a staff car in which, all bundled together, they were driven the short distance over to the airfield. There to find his Albatross D-III and those of his comrades already rolled out of their canvas hangars and lined up on the frozen grass._

 _Once out of the staff car, as was his wont, he gave a cursory glance upwards_ , _saw that on this particular winter's morning the clouds were dark grey, hanging ominously low, lowering angrily over the white tipped crests and peaks of the Alps, presaging, he thought, yet more snow, while, south eastwards, over the mountains, towards the Italian lines, the sky was salmon pink, shot with the amber glow of the breaking dawn._

 _With no time for wasting, dressed in his fur lined flying suit, sporting a leather hood and boots, he did as the others were now doing, in his case clambering hastily up onto the bottom wing and from there scrambling into the cockpit of his own Albatross before, but moments later, the motors of the five machines in the escadrille bursting into life as they were tested, followed by several loud explosions as the five pilots tried out the mechanism of their Schwarzlose machine guns, before then adjusting their gas and air throttles._

 _"Contact!" he yelled._

 _Below him on the frozen grass, the mechanic standing in front of the machine now spun the heavy wooden propeller and the engine of the Albatross, followed shortly thereafter by those of his comrades, roared into being. Drawing forward, bouncing across the frozen grass, his compatriots following suit, he gave the 'plane yet more and more throttle, the Albatross picking up speed, now racing across the frozen grass before, a matter of minutes later, the wheels left the grass, and he had taken off, the ground falling away slowly as the machine soared upwards into the cold morning air._

* * *

 _Circling high over the airfield, glancing cursorily at the gauges, including the oil pressure, noting too the time on the clock as to when he had left, now looking round behind him he saw the four other 'planes had also left terra firma, were likewise rising steadily upwards into the chill Alpine air. Somewhere about 1400 metres he eased off on the throttle, waiting for his companions to catch up, and when they had done so, climbing still higher, gulping in mouthfuls of cold air in order to clear his ears as the pressure changed, and heading for the Italian lines …_

* * *

 _Here, high above the snow covered peaks of the Julian Alps, it was bitterly cold, and, despite the warmth of his fur lined flying suit, he found himself shivering. Far below, he saw waterfalls, lakes, and the river itself, sparkling in the morning sunlight; glimpsed occasionally the pale ribbon of one of the very few roads, saw too the bright flashes of artillery fire and the subsequent puffs of dirty brown smoke where shells were bursting in and around the lines of the trenches, the mottled earth in their immediate vicinity already heavily pock marked with craters left by past explosions, much like the Albatross itself, which, was a sieve of patched up bullet holes garnered on previous sorties. Puffs of black smoke now began to punctuate the sky from bursts of shrapnel coming from the enemy artillery far below, the noise of the explosions drowned out by the roar of the motor._

 _And then, with a sickening sense of déjà vu, he saw them; coming out of the cover of the clouds, flying directly towards their escadrille: a squadron of Italian Nieuport 11s ..._

* * *

 _Doing his very best to divert the attention of two of the Nieuports from where Weber was struggling to control his already damaged machine, an unequal contest but nonetheless, one that honour demanded that he undertake, at close range, he opened fire at the nearer of the two enemy 'planes; hearing above the roar of the wind and the motor, the rattle of his own machine guns as they sent out a lethal stream of bullets, before he soared away overhead, then dived immediately, so as to be out of range as quickly as possible._

 _Only then, to his horror, did he see another enemy machine coming straight towards him which, while the Nieuport was still some way off, its pilot opened fire with his machine guns: tut-tut-tut, the staccato hail of bullets peppering the Albatross, ripping into the canvas of both fuselage and wings, tearing it to shreds, before hitting the cowling of the engine, sending the 'plane into a corkscrew, spiralling down and down, as he fought desperately to try and regain control of it ..._

* * *

 _... now saw the ground hurtling towards him at an alarming rate of knots before, somehow he managed to regain regained control of his machine before, cut and bruised, the wings and fuselage full of fresh bullet holes, with thick black smoke pouring from the engine, he was landing the Albatross, bump, bump, bump, the machine spinning round, ending up facing towards from whence it had just come, before finally spluttering to an abrupt and final stop in a rutted Alpine meadow on the edge of a snow-covered pine forest._

 _Wiping a mixture of blood, oil, and sweat from off his face, he lay weakly back in the cockpit …_

* * *

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, Christmas Day, December 1931.**

And then, just as suddenly, on this bright, cold Christmas morning of 1931, very much to his relief, young Max woke up.

To find, somewhat to his surprise, and also to his infinite relief that, instead of slumped, bloodied and bruised, in the cockpit of a bullet ridden Albatross D-III somewhere in the Julian Alps, he was in fact safe, lying snug and warm in his bed, in his very own room at Rosenberg, with little Fritz licking his face, desirous of being both fussed and petted.

Now, as it so happened, Max had had the same dream before; the reason for which was partly of his own making. For, ever since he had first learned about it, down the years, and usually at his own insistence, he had asked Papa to recount yet again the details of that dogfight, fought back in December 1917, in the Julian Alps, high in the skies over the Isonzo river, and which, despite Friedrich's earlier military service on the Eastern Front, was what had led to him being decorated for bravery by His Imperial and Royal Apostolic Majesty, Karl, late Emperor of Austria, Apostolic King of Hungary and Croatia, Slavonia and Dalmatia who, back in 1922, had died in exile on the distant island of Madeira far out in the Atlantic Ocean.

With the thick, floor length curtains of his bedroom still tightly drawn, looking above him, in the half-light Max saw once again the familiar, faintly moving shadows cast on the ceiling by the dozen or so wooden model aircraft; all of them painstakingly assembled and painted by himself with help from Papa. Or, to be rather more candid, each carefully put together and liveried by Papa with a little help from Max. And thereafter suspended on differing lengths of white cotton thread from the ceiling high above Max's bed. Among these were a pair of Aviatiks, both the D. I and the D. II. A Hansa Brandenburg B. I bomber, resplendent in buff paint with red and white markings both on its wing tips and tail, and on the latter a crown imperial. A red painted Fokker tri-plane bearing the serial number 425/17 as flown by Baron von Richthofen himself. A Lohner B. VII, as flown by one of Papa's friends, Stabsfeldwebel Julius Arigi, Austria-Hungary's most decorated flying ace, who in one engagement shot down five out of enemy aircraft. And taking pride of place, directly above where Max was now lying, was a model of an Albatross D-III, of the type flown by Papa during the Great War, more especially in his skirmish above the Isonzo river.

* * *

Here at Rosenberg, having scrambled out of bed, with the curtains now drawn back and having opened the shutters, even though, so as to avoid the risk of injury to himself, Max had been told to leave their unbarring to Frau Schmidt, kneeling on the window seat, through the double glass Max saw that Christmas morning had dawned bright and crisp; the sky above a pale cold blue. The blizzard of the previous night had blown itself out; the legacy of which lay before him. A snow covered landscape that stretched as far as he could see: the stone flags of the terrace, Mama's much prized rose beds edged with box, in her English Garden, which in summer were a riot of colour and competing scents, the balustrade of the terrace with its lead urns and marble statues, the lawn which stretched all the way down to the lake with, beyond it, a magnificent view of the Schneeberg, the highest peak in the Alps hereabouts, all lay hidden beneath a pristine mantle of white.

The door to Max's bedroom opened and, turning expectantly on the window seat, on seeing who it was, Max smiled happily as his Mama came into the room.

"Merry Christmas, my darling!"

* * *

 **Schloss Rosenberg, afternoon, Christmas Day, December 1931.**

So far, at least for the family, Christmas here at Rosenberg had been a decidedly leisurely affair. A late breakfast, followed by the servants being given their presents in the hall beside the Christmas tree after which Friedrich, Edith and Max had adjourned to the Drawing Room to exchange their own gifts to each other in private. Of all the presents young Max received, the one with which he was most delighted was that to which Kapitän Wyss had alluded so enigmatically on Christmas Eve, just as they had been about to board the express at the Westbahnhof.

For what that turned out to be, was a wooden propeller from off an Albatross D-III; the 'plane to which it had belonged, long since broken up, at the the end of the Great War said Papa, when the surviving machines of the Austro-Hungarian Air Force had been surrendered to the victorious Allies. Quite how it had survived and then come into the possession of the Kapitän remained something of a mystery. But survive it had, and, having acquired it, knowing young Max's fascination with all things aeronautical, having no children of his own, the Kapitän had given it to Friedrich and Edith, as a Christmas present for Max; although quite where it would be displayed would, said Friedrich, need some careful thought. Max had the answer to that; on the wall above his bed.

"Perhaps," said Friedrich, "if the wall is strong enough".

At that, Edith smiled; spared a thought for Sybil who, in one of her letters had mentioned in passing that eleven year old Danny's bedroom was cluttered up with bits and pieces from off several old motors: a brass lamp, a wooden steering wheel, and so forth. Predictably enough, wrote Sybil, Tom saw no harm in it; she, on the other hand, thought Danny's room looked like a scrapyard. And when she had said as much to Tom, he had been absolutely no help at all ...

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, late June 1931.**

Sybil cast a decidedly disapproving eye over Danny's latest prize; a battered radiator from off some motor.

"It's _unique_ , Ma!" She had never heard Danny use the word before; clearly he had learned it from his father which only served to reinforce Sybil's suspicion that Tom had played a part in Danny's newest acquisition.

"I quite agree. It is. I've never seen anything so rusty! Unique or not, it stays outside. In your Da's workshop".

"Oh, Ma!"

It was at this point that Tom wandered in from the garden. And while Danny explained to him that Ma said the radiator would have to stay in the workshop, that she wasn't having his bedroom looking like a scrapyard, husband and wife stood facing each other across the kitchen table, Sybil with her arms folded, Tom with his right arm placed protectively around his son's shoulders.

"Darlin' have yous ever seen a scrapyard, for sure?" asked Tom with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes while at the same time hugging Danny to him.

"No," said Sybil flatly.

"I could take yous to see Donnelly's yard this afternoon, if yous like". Tom grinned.

Honestly, thought Sybil, if darling Papa had still been alive, why, at this time of the year he would have been offering to escort Mama to Ladies' Day at Ascot or to accompany her to view the Royal Regatta at Henley. And here was Tom, proposing to take her to see a bloody scrapyard.

Sybil stood her ground; pointed to the radiator propped against the wall by the back door.

"That! Outside, in the workshop!"

Sybil looked mutinous; much, thought Tom, as General Nivelle must have done, at Verdun, during the Great War, when he famously declared of the Germans, _"_ _Ils ne passeront pas!"_

* * *

And the radiator?

It stayed outside.

In Tom's workshop.

* * *

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, afternoon, Christmas Day, December 1931.**

Now, had it not been for Fritz, what happened this afternoon, might never even have occurred.

After luncheon, a light affair, Friedrich and Edith settled down to read in the Drawing Room while, unlike most children of his age and social status who would have been banished to the day nursery, Max played contentedly on the hearth rug before the tiled stove. Some time later, having realised that Fritz had wandered off, Max went in search of him; at last spied the little dog trotting across the hall into the ballroom. For Max, the ballroom was shrouded in mystery; never used and its doors kept shut.

"Ah, there you are!" called Mama. Hearing his mother's voice, Max spun on his heel.

"It's Fritz, Mama, he's gone in there". He pointed towards the doors of the ballroom which this afternoon, for some unaccountable reason, stood ajar.

"Has he? Let's go and find him then".

Taking Max by the hand, Edith pushed open the doors, walked purposefully across the darkened room, over towards the nearest of the half dozen full length windows which gave onto the terrace, opening the shutters before doing the same with all the rest, so that the huge room was flooded with winter sunshine. "There, now. That's much better, don't you agree?"

The interior of the room thus revealed was truly magnificent: the intricate white and gold plasterwork and painted panels of the ceiling, the pictures in their gilded frames, mostly, Edith thought, portraits of Friedrich's forebears, the cut glass mirrors, the candle sconces on the walls, the huge chandeliers, of which there were two, cocooned in dust sheets, as were all of the furnishings, the chairs, the chaises longues, and the marble topped side tables.

"Yes, Mama". Max nodded his head, breathing a sigh of relief when at last he caught sight of the ever inquisitive Fritz who, with his claws clicking on the polished parquet blocks of the floor, now trotted out from beneath a large dust sheet.

"I wonder ..." began Edith.

"Wonder what, Mama?"  
"When this room was last ever used?"

Given their own particular circumstances, the fact that Friedrich had been ostracised by his own family, that both he and Edith, or more often, owing to Max's repeated bouts of ill health, these days one or the other of them, usually Friedrich, were out in the Near East on archaeological excavations, the Schönborns entertained but rarely. And when they did so, their guests, like Conrad Wyss, were few, chosen from a select circle of friends, cultured, well read, who shared the same political opinions as their hosts and who, above all, knew of the domestic situation here at Rosenberg and did not disapprove of it.

* * *

 **Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, England, late May 1941.**

Of all the Walker children who appeared in _Swallows and Amazons_ , and of whom there were four - five including the baby but she didn't really count - Kurt most liked to hear tell about young Roger who, at seven, was almost the same age as he was himself and very resourceful. And if Roger could be resourceful, Kurt could be too.

So when Mama had finished reading all about the encounter with the charcoal burners, had laid aside the book, telling Kurt to be sure to return _The Mask of Fu Manchu_ to Ike at school first thing come Monday morning, tucked Kurt in and then kissed him good night, when she asked, as Mama usually did, if there was anything else he wanted, that gave Kurt the opening he needed ...

* * *

A short while later, the bedroom door opened quietly then closed again just as softly. Sitting up in bed, on seeing who it was who had now come in, Kurt smiled, as Claire, placing a forefinger to her lips, tip-toed silently towards him across the room.

"Your Mum ... I mean your Mama, said you wanted me to look in, but I thought you might already be asleep. I've come up to say goodnight," she whispered, before sitting down beside him on the bed.

Kurt grinned. Not only was he very proud to be her brother-in-law, but he also thought Claire to be great fun; liked her a lot and not just because she made his brother Max so very happy.

"Can't you sleep?" asked Claire, in all innocence.

Kurt promptly shook his head.

"Would you like me to read you a story, to help you settle?"

Looking as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, slowly - Kurt realising that it wouldn't do to look too eager in all of this - the little boy nodded his head.

"What did you have in mind?"  
"Well ..." Once more Kurt's hand slid furtively under his pillow.

* * *

Downstairs, the door of the Drawing Room opened and Claire came in; smiled, as she re-joined her husband and her mother-in-law, seating herself on the settee next to Max.

"You've been gone quite a while," he observed.

"Miss me then, did you?"

"No. Not at all. Perhaps. Yes". Max grinned.

"Well?" Edith enquired, laying aside her darning.

"I went up and said goodnight to Kurt and he's gone to sleep. Mind you, I had to read to him for a while ... before he finally nodded off. That's what took me so long".

"I see ..."

"Yes, the second chapter of some story. Max, ..."

Edith's head snapped up.

"The **second** chapter? But we were much further on with _Swallows And Amazons_ than that".

Claire shook her head.

"Oh, no, it wasn't _Swallows and Amazons,_ it was the book you started reading him last night, darling". Claire glanced sideways at Max. "You remember. The one about Nayland Smith and that evil Chinaman, Fu Manchu ..."

Max grinned.

"Yes, Kurt really enjoyed it. He was hoping you'd read him the second chapter tonight, Mama".

"Was he now?" asked Edith, not deigning to look up for fear that her face might betray her. Concentrated instead on darning the heel of Kurt's threadbare sock. After all, she could hardly be annoyed at Claire; it was not her fault.

At times, she found being the mother of two high spirited sons, who knew their own minds, decidedly taxing. Not that she would have it any other way; speculated, idly, if Mary and Sybil had experienced similar problems. Mary, probably not. After all, she had left the bringing up of her four children in the more than capable hands of the resourceful Nanny Bridges. But no doubt Sybil had gone through many of the same trials and tribulations with her brood as Edith had with Max and Kurt.

And it didn't seem that things became any easier as they grew older.

Far from it.

Whereupon, Edith now fell to wondering, if, when they had been children, Mary, Sybil, and she had been this much trouble to Mama and decided that, on balance, they probably had.

Nonetheless, she would make it her business to see to it that, come Monday morning, _The Mask of Fu Manchu_ was packed off to school in Kurt's satchel, never to return.

* * *

Inwardly, Edith sighed. Glanced across at Max and Claire who, sitting on the settee, whispering sweet nothings to each other, were completely oblivious that her eyes were upon them.

No, that was not entirely true. For it was her son at whom Edith was now looking.

When he was the age Kurt was now, darling Max had been just the same.

Known exactly what he wanted.

Would employ any manner of means at his disposal to achieve it.

At that, memory stirred and Edith found herself thinking back to something that had happened, nearly ten years ago, in December 1931, at Christmas, which that year had been spent at Rosenberg, in Lower Austria.

* * *

 **Ballroom, Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, afternoon, Christmas Day, December 1931.**

For Edith, the sight of the silent ballroom brought back the past.

So, while mother and son sat together in the quiet of the winter's afternoon, Edith found herself recalling and then bringing to life for Max, the excitement and the glamour of the social whirl from before the Great War, of the dances held at Downton Abbey with the gentlemen in full evening dress and the ladies turned out in the height of fashion, sparkling with jewels. Glossing over, of course, the inevitable assignations and flirtations, although for the most part they had been entirely harmless. Even those of Mary who, with her then penchant for foreign diplomats, had, at the time, appeared to be steadily working her way through the military attachés of each and every Balkan country which had an embassy up in London - Serbia, Montenegro and so forth. Of course, quite what Mary would do when, metaphorically speaking, she reached the Bosphorus, back then Edith didn't know. Perhaps have an affair with someone at the Ottoman Embassy?

"There was one dance, I remember, held in 1912, the very same year the Titanic went down. I was partnered with Freddie Delamere and he would keep treading on my feet! No, don't you laugh. I've never forgotten it. The following morning my toes were all black and blue!"

The lavish dinners: "some with twelve courses, just imagine that!"

The week-end house parties: "where all manner of people came to stay and your dear Grandmama was at her wits' end as to where everyone was going to sleep!"

The shoots, and riding to hounds:"it was only really your late Grandpapa and your Aunt Mary who liked those sort of things. Your Uncle Matthew hates shooting. So does your Uncle Tom".

And, in summer, splendid outdoor picnics, held under the trees down by the lake: "when she was a girl, your Aunt Sybil thought they were the greatest fun, even when she spilled ginger beer all down the front of her silk blouse!"

Then there had been the glittering balls and the elegant receptions, including one for her own coming out held in 1911, "the year I was presented at Court, to the King and Queen" - which her parents had hosted at Grantham House up in house itself, despite strenuous opposition from Mary, now long since sold at Matthew's insistence, as part of his on-going attempt to save the Downton Abbey estate from financial ruin.

A vanished world.

Edith sighed wistfully.

* * *

Seated beside his mother, turning his head, glancing out of the window, Max saw the first few flakes begin drifting down from out of the pale blue sky. A moment later and the view from the window vanished entirely; the terrace, the park, the trees, the distant mountains, and the sky, blotted out by a mass of whirling snow.

"Look, Mama, look. It's snowing again!"

"Why so it is". Edith stood up. "I think we should go and find your Papa, don't you?"

But, Max didn't hear what his mother had said.

He felt ...

He didn't know quite how he felt.

Not ill.

Not that.

But as he continued to gaze through the window at the swirling snowflakes, he knew that something was about to happen. And what was more, knew too, that if he remained exactly where he was, sitting here, beside one of the windows of this huge, ornate, empty room, that, if he waited long enough, if he was patient, he would find out what that something was.

* * *

Patience is said to be a virtue.

And this time it was rewarded.

And swiftly, too.

For happen it now did.

As from somewhere, seemingly audible only to Max, there came faintly, the tinkling, plaintive notes of a zither.

* * *

"Will you teach me, Mama?" he asked suddenly, his tone coaxing, but for all that, quietly insistent; his face lit in childish epiphany.

"Teach you what, my darling?" Edith asked.

She rested her hands lightly upon Max's shoulders; gazed down at him. Saw upon his face the winning smile which he wore, more often than not, when he wanted a favour of her and which always melted her heart. Gazing up at her, looking the way he did now, Edith knew that whatever it was Max wanted, she was powerless to refuse him; was as putty in his hands.

What was more, Max knew it too.

"Teach me, Mama" he persisted. "Teach me to dance".

 **Author's Note:**

 _Tiroler Kaiserjäger -_ Tyrolian Rifle Regiment.

Frohe Weihnachten - Merry Christmas.

Kaiserliche und Königliche Luftfahrtruppen - Imperial and Royal Aviation Troops - the air force of the Austro-Hungarian empire until the empire's collapse in 1918.

Stabsfeldwebel Julius Arigi (1895-1981) credited with a total of 32 victories.

 _Ils ne passeront pas! - They shall not pass!_


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The Snow Waltz

 **Drawing Room, Rosenberg, Lower Austria, Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

"So, my darling, now you know, all there is for me to tell you".

At last, Edith fell silent. Then, setting down her empty silver goblet on the table between them, the Himbeergeist, the raspberry drink which she had enjoyed so much, coursing again through her like wildfire, she stretched out her hands towards the tiled surface of the stove. And so, having concluded the telling of the tale of what had befallen both her and Max earlier this same evening on the snowbound streets of distant Vienna, Edith now sat quietly, waiting patiently, to hear what it was that Friedrich himself had to say.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then when finally he spoke, predictably Friedrich's first words concerned young Max; asking how he was, seeking to be reassured that the little boy had come to no harm. Only now, in the aftermath of what had happened, did it suddenly dawn on Edith that, earlier tonight, in the heat of the moment, in helping Mayer and the others, she had taken a terrible risk ... with the one person who mattered more to her than life itself. And which, with tears starting, she now admitted to Friedrich.

"Hush now; you acted for the best and with no real harm done. After all, staying where you were, in the middle of that street, with the Heimwehr taking shots at those three young Jews was hardly an option now, was it? But I was asking ... about Max".

"To tell you the truth, he seems perfectly fine; took all of it in his stride. Why, he even shook the hands with them all; when we made our farewells". Edith dabbed at her eyes; smiled lightly at the memory of young Max standing there beside the battered bakery van, in the falling snow, and gravely shaking Ezra's hand.

"Like a true Schönborn then!" exclaimed Friedrich and clearly with obvious pride.

"But of course!" Edith laughed. "All the same, he was very, very tired".

"Understandably so".

"After we left Vienna, he fell asleep in my arms; slept for most of the journey back to St. Johann".

Friedrich nodded his head sympathetically.

"No doubt it was for the best. Never for an instant did I imagine that ... But then, knowing you as I do, perhaps I should have. Realised that only something of the utmost import would have stopped you from boarding the express. I'm so very, very proud of you. Of both of you. And I'm very glad to learn too, how Conrad came so ably to your assistance there at the railway station".

Edith nodded.

"Yes, it was the most tremendous stroke of good luck, him being there at the same time as we were. In all honesty, Friedrich, without Conrad's help, I suspect we might both still be in Vienna".

"I agree. All the same, as I've said so many times before, the Heimwehr are nothing more than a bunch of thugs. A band of ruffians. No better than the likes of Al Capone and his gangsters over there in the States. And the same goes for all the others, whether from the right or from the left, including those in the Ostmärkische Sturmscharen and the Republikanischer Schutzbund. That ever any of them should have been allowed to become established here in the first place is an affront to Austria and should be a matter of the gravest concern to everyone. Although, what with the chaos that ensued following the collapse of the empire, given that since then things have only gone from bad to worse, with so many having lost such a very great deal, I suppose their emergence was only to be expected. Maybe Conrad has the right of it but if the Heimwehr or any of the others ever gains the upper hand, then God help Austria. So, for her sake, and also for our own, I earnestly hope and pray that he is wrong. But only time will tell".

"Indeed".

"Now, one last thing. As to those back there in Leopoldstadt, Jews taking matters into their own hands and arming themselves. While I understand perfectly well why they are doing so, I'm very much of the same opinion as Kuffner, that no good will come of it. For anyone; least of all themselves".

* * *

 **Upstairs, Rosenberg, Lower Austria, late Christmas Eve, December 1931.**

Some time later, having looked in on Max and found him sleeping peacefully with Fritz lying at the bottom of his bed, here in the quiet of their own bedroom, although Friedrich fell asleep almost the very instant his head touched the pillow, to begin with, despite all that had happened, Edith found sleep to be in very short supply. While as Friedrich had said, no harm had come of it, there was no gainsaying the fact that she had put Max at risk and with that realisation preying on her mind, when finally, at last Edith drifted off to sleep ...

* * *

 **Valley of the Kings, Egypt ...**

 _Cut through solid rock, l_ _it only by moonlight, the deep flight of narrow stone steps led downwards to the entrance to the tomb._

 _Holding aloft the lantern, by its light, on either side of the inner entrance, there now stood revealed to her, two gilded, ebony effigies of the pharaoh, holding staff and mace, while in the darkness beyond there lay a jumble of all manner of beautiful things: exquisite furnishings, lion-headed couches, finely carved wooden chairs and stools, inlaid ornamental caskets also of wood, painted pottery, amphorae, pithoi, bowls, dishes, and vases, along with amulets, cartouches, images of deities, and animals crafted from steatite and enamelled in many lustrous colours, the overturned parts of a golden chariot, and last of all, on the very threshold of the doorway, a beautiful wishing cup, in the form of a lotus petal, carved from translucent alabaster._

* * *

 _The air within the innermost chamber was heavy, pungent; laden with incense and perfumed unguents._

 _The light in the lantern flickered._

 _A fault with the wick?_

 _Possibly._

 _If not?_

 _The oil supply then?_

 _Maybe that._

 _Perhaps both._

 _The shadows quivered._

* * *

 _And, for one brief instant, it was as if the frieze of mute figures painted in profile on the plastered walls, the colours still bright and vivid: white from gypsum, black from carbon, red and yellow ochre, blue and green from azurite and malachite, gilded, enriched with lapis lazuli, now came to life. U_ _nseen for millennia, t_ _he fantastical forms of Egyptian deities, the figure of pharaoh himself, those of the high priests, the servants, and the slaves of the boy-king, all turned silently towards her, their eyes pleading, almond shaped, most edged heavily with kohl, their hands weaving, their fingers writhing, beckoning, urging that she now move forward, ever closer, to view more intimately what lay before her._

 _Here in the very heart of the burial chamber, there stood a massive stone sarcophagus, sculpted out of red quartzite, adorned with hieroglyphs and religious scenes, and, at the corners, and_ _carved in high relief, their wings outstretched,_ _the figures of four goddesses, of Isis, Nephthys, Neith, and Selket, placed here to protect the young pharaoh who had died an early death and whose body lay deep within the depths of the tomb._

 _The heavy lid of the sarcophagus, fashioned of red granite, had been pushed aside, by whose hands the woman knew not, but now as she bent her head to gaze within, she knew what she would find. Not the gilded effigy of the boy-king but what she herself feared most of all to see._

 _The light from the lantern flickered._

 _Went out._

 _Plunging the tomb and everything within it into an unending desolation of darkness and despair._

* * *

 **Upstairs, Rosenberg, Lower Austria, early Christmas Day, December 1931.**

As so many times before, it was always at this point in the recurring nightmare, that shaking, bathed in a cold sweat, Edith herself awoke, in this case to daylight and to the realisation that last night darling little Max had indeed come to no harm. Even so, while it was yet still early, without disturbing Friedrich, Edith slipped out of bed, and made her way along the corridor to Max's bedroom. Pausing at the door, listening intently, she heard Max whispering something to Fritz. So, he was awake then which, despite all that had happened last night, the lateness of their return and the earliness of the present hour was hardly surprising. After all, it was Christmas morning. Edith turned the doorknob and let herself quietly inside the room, to see Max kneeling over on the window seat; saw him turn and give her a radiant smile.

"Merry Christmas, my darling!"

* * *

 **Piccadilly Circus, London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

"Wait and see," was Max's affable albeit laconic reply as, arm in arm, they walked briskly along the pavement, away from the Windmill Theatre and thence down Shaftesbury Avenue. Indeed, despite Claire's equally good natured attempts to worm it out of him, it was all Max would say on the matter of where it was they were bound, as now they began to retrace their steps, whence they had come but a short while earlier, through the crowds, back across Piccadilly Circus. Eventually, knowing that if Max set his mind to something, just how stubborn he could be, after all she had just had proof enough of that, if it was needed, in the matter of the Windmill Theatre, Claire gave in and without any further questioning on her part, let him have his way; allowing him to lead her wherever it was they were going.

So, on they went, now down Piccadilly itself, past Fortnum and Mason's, and then, just opposite the Royal Academy, turning into the brightly lit Piccadilly Arcade, at the far end of which they exited onto Jermyn Street, lined for the most part with a succession of gentlemens' outfitters: Hawes and Curtis, Turnbull and Asser, and T.M. Lewin and Sons to name but a few. At the end of the Jermyn Street, Max stopped briefly, to glance up at the sign on a wall and, evidently satisfied, then turned down St. James Street, an elegant thoroughfare with fine houses on either side but known chiefly for its gentlemens' clubs such as Brook's, the Carlton, and White's.

Claire couldn't help herself.

"Max, just where on earth are we going?"  
"Not far now," he said with a grin.

And so it proved to be.

* * *

 **Blue Ball Yard, off St. James Street,** **London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

Moments later, after passing Brook's, they turned into a gaslit, cobbled mews, at the far end of which, having reached a small area enclosed by cast iron railings, they descended a worn flight of stone steps where Max and Claire found themselves standing in front of a dingy doorway. Beside it was a small window through which a pale light shone; clearly down here among the all pervading gloom there was no need for the blackout. Nonetheless, despite the dismal nature of their surroundings, Max now rapped smartly on the door.

A moment later, came the sound of footsteps, followed by the noise of bolts being drawn back, and the snick of a key turning in a well oiled lock. Then, the door swung open, grating on the flagstones beneath it, to reveal a bespectacled elderly man, from his attire, evidently in service, and, standing just behind him a woman of a similar age, her grey hair piled in a bun, neatly divided like a cottage loaf, wearing a white blouse and a black skirt.

"Mr. Schönborn, is it?"  
Max nodded.

"Cley, sir. The butler. And this is Mrs. Horsham, the housekeeper".

Max now indicated Claire standing beside him in the gloom of the area.

"My wife".

The elderly man nodded gravely.

"But of course. Do come in out of the cold sir, madam. Everything is in order, sir".

Claire frowned; looked wonderingly at Max. Evidently they were both expected here. But just where was _here_? And, _everything is in order_. Just _what_ was in order? What on earth was going on?"

* * *

 **Ballroom, Rosenberg, Lower Austria, afternoon, Christmas Day, December 1931.**

Outside, beyond the tall, round headed windows of the ballroom, the snow continued to fall unabated and although it was but a little after two o'clock in the afternoon, the room darkened.

"Please, Mama?" asked Max.

"Darling, I wouldn't know where on earth to begin".

Max was having none of it. If he wanted something badly enough, then he could be remarkably persistent.

"Yes you do! Please, Mama".

"Very well darling, if it's really what you want".

Privately Edith thought this sudden desire on the part of her eight year old son to learn how to dance would be a nine days' wonder; that Max would soon tire of it and after but a very short space of time. Probably that very afternoon. But, not for nothing had Max been born a Schonborn and, if he set his mind to do something, then nearly always he saw it through to fruition. And so it proved now.

"Thank you, Mama!" He grinned.

"So, then. Let's start with the steps to the Viennese waltz. Now, watch me".

Max stood to one side while, in the fading light of the winter's afternoon, his mother drifted slowly round the room; arms outstretched holding an imaginary partner.

"One, two, three, one two three. There. Do you see?" she asked, now drawing level with him.

"Yes, I think so". Max sounded somewhat doubtful. Taking his hand, Edith led Max forward into the middle of the room.

"Now, turn and face the windows". Max did as he was told. Saw the snow yet continuing to fall.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because, the gentleman always starts with his back to the middle of the room. And, of course, he must lead the lady. So, stand beside me and I'll show you your steps. Now, stand straight, shoulders back. Step out to your left and forwards". Max did he was told, at the same time casting his eyes downwards, watching his mother's feet.

"Good boy!" Max beamed.

"Now, you turn clockwise ..." Edith nodded to her right "... and sweep your right foot backwards". Max dutifully followed suit.

"Well done! Now, turn your left foot, bring it square, pointing into the middle of the room".

"Like this?"  
"Yes. Exactly so".

"Now, let's do all of that again ..."

And so they did; Max dutifully following his mother's footsteps.

* * *

"Now the gentleman steps with his right foot ...

* * *

"So, here we are, back where we started. Shall we try all of that again?"

Max nodded.

"And, step out to your left and forwards ..."

* * *

"I'm very much impressed. Max, darling ..."  
"Mama?"  
"Have you ever done this before?"

"No. How could I have?"

"With Fraulein Schmidt, perhaps?"  
Max shook his head.

"No, never. Why do you ask?"  
"Because you seem to be picking all of it up very well indeed".

* * *

 **Blue Ball Yard, off St. James Street,** **London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

Here, standing in the wan light of what, with its deep, stained, enamel sink, empty wooden plate racks, and shelves, was evidently a scullery, musty smelling and seemingly disused, Claire now looked again to Max for some form of enlightenment.

"Darling, this is Mr. Cley and Mrs. Horsham. Both were once with the Crawleys, over at Grantham House in Belgravia, and are now in service here, with the Frewells". Claire nodded, but was still none the wiser as to what both Max and she were doing here. Wherever _here_ was. And who exactly were the Frewells?

Max must have read her mind.

"The Frewells are old friends of Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary".

Claire nodded but before she could ask anything more of Max, the old butler interposed.

"As I said a moment ago, sir, everything is in order. If you'd both like to follow me, sir".

* * *

 **Ballroom, Rosenberg, Lower Austria, afternoon, Christmas Day, December 1931.**

"What we need now, is some music. And also, I think, a little more light". Edith glanced briefly at the two chandeliers heavily shrouded in dust sheets. Shook her head. Now at the candles in the burnished silver wall sconces; yes, they would do nicely. She pressed the bell beside the door and a few minutes later and Sophia appeared in answer to Edith's summons.

"Ah, Sophia. Would you please ask Feist to have one of the men come in and light the candles and then bring in the gramophone and the collection of recordings from the Drawing Room".

"Yes, mum". Sophia nodded, sketched a curtsy, and promptly withdrew.

* * *

 **Somewhere in London** , **Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

Escorted by the butler and the housekeeper, they had been led through a rabbit warren of dimly lit passages below stairs, thence up across the hall of this darkened, silent, shuttered house, and so to the foot of the Main Staircase where the butler had left them; thence, accompanied solely by the housekeeper, upstairs along a corridor to where it was both Max and Claire found themselves now; in a lighted, well furnished bedroom, where a warm fire burned brightly in the grate. Had also been shown the adjoining bathroom and dressing room, by Mrs. Horsham, who then, without another word, had withdrawn herself discretely, and left the two of them alone.

Claire, still none the wiser, now glanced slowly round the room.

Took in the elegant furnishings, the heavy, plush, drawn curtains, the deep, soft carpet, and then with infinite surprise, the battered suitcase which she recognised as their own. As well as the smart clothes lying neatly folded on the double bed, among them, the suit Max had worn to Rob and Saiorse's wedding back in the summer of 1940 while here, on the side of the bed nearest to her, was a set of beautiful undergarments and a packet of silk stockings, all of them new. As well as the pale blue dress, and on the floor, the matching shoes which Claire had worn to the very same wedding. She could see that both the filmy undergarments and the stockings were of the very finest quality; had never seen anything more exquisite. Saw Max smile, then blush, delightfully so, as she fingered the sheer fabric of the white, lace edged, silk slip between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.

"Max, darling, just what is going on?"

"Fröhliche Weihnachten," he said shyly. "Merry Christmas, darling".

A moment later, while still none the wiser as to where they were, or indeed where it was they were going, Claire was in Max's arms, smothering his face with kisses.

* * *

 **Ballroom, Rosenberg, Lower Austria, afternoon, Christmas Day, December 1931.**

With the stubs of the candles in the wall sconces now lit, the ornate room took on an altogether more delightful appearance, as by their flickering light, Edith skimmed through the recordings which Hans had brought hither, along with the gramophone from the Drawing Room. Quite why she chose the one that she now did, Edith never knew. But choose it she most definitely did.

As the stylus crackled, young Max and his mother now moved to stand in the middle of the huge ballroom, and while they waited for the music to begin, beyond the windows, the snow continued to drift its way ever downwards. There followed a moment of complete and utter stillness and then, as the first notes of the tune spilled out into the huge room, Max looked up at his mother and gave her the most radiant of smiles.

"But Mama, how on earth did you know?" he asked, clearly delighted, as they both spun easily into the first steps of the Viennese waltz.

"Know what, my darling?"  
"Listen, Mama, it's my tune. The one that someone was playing yesterday, in the Herrengasse!"

And so, indeed proved to be the case.

Now, as they continued to drift effortlessly about the floor, surrounded on all side by the ornate splendour of Rosenberg's magnificent ballroom, young Max, despite the occasional misstep, changed direction with consummate ease, Edith smiling down at her young son.

"You know, you really do have a gift for this my darling".

Max grinned.

"Do I, Mama?"  
"Yes, you do".

* * *

Inevitably, all good things must come to an end.

As the recording drew to a close, the tempo of the music slowed, and as the last notes faded away, Max whirled his mother into one final turn.

Now, letting go of her hand, Max bowed, straightened up, and smiled.

"Why, thank you, young sir!" Edith herself sketched a curtsy. Likewise smiled. Ruffled her son's sandy hair before walking over to the gramophone where she picked up the recording to find out what the tune itself was called. Read softly, the label upon it:

" _T_ _he Snow_ _Waltz_ , by Koschat".

* * *

As the notes of _The Snow Waltz_ trilled out through the ground floor of the house, cocking an ear, Friedrich looked up from the report he was writing on the latest finds from the ongoing excavation at Jericho in Palestine being undertaken by the British archaeologist, John Garstang. Intrigued, he now rose from his desk, and having quitted his study, ascertaining from where the music was coming, strode purposefully across the hall, in the direction of the ballroom. Opened the door, and entranced by what he saw, remained standing exactly where he was on the threshold of the room, as Edith and their son ended their waltz together.

"Bravo! Wonderful!" Friedrich called, giving them both a discrete round of applause.

"Our pleasure!" laughed Edith, as she and Max now walked across the floor of the ballroom and joined him by the door.

Friedrich smiled; hugged both of them to him. What he himself had just witnessed now gave him the germ of an idea which, at least for for the present, Friedrich decided to keep to himself.

 **Author's Note:**

The Ostmärkische Sturmscharen (Eastern March Stormtroopers) and the Republikanischer Schutzbund (Republican Protection League) were two of the para military organisations which were established in Austria following the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian empire.

The quaintly named Blue Ball Yard, lying off St. James's Street, does actually exist.

Area - a space excavated around the basement of a house in order to give light to service rooms such as kitchen, scullery and laundry.

Recordings - what these days are simply called records.

Thomas Koschat (1845-1914) the Austrian composer who wrote, among many other pieces, the Snow Waltz.

John Garstang (1876-1956) was a British archaeologist who undertook many excavations in the Near East, especially in Anatolia and the southern Levant.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Puttin' On The Ritz

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, evening, Christmas Day, December 1931.**

"What then? A private supper party?" asked Edith, agog to learn exactly just what it was that Friedrich had in mind.

He smiled. Shook his head most decisively.

"Darling, no. To be absolutely truthful, I have something much grander in mind".

"What then?"

"Don't you really think that it's about high time those around here, met both you and Max?" Friedrich heard her intake of breath but chose to ignore it. "Young as he is, however long he may live, Max needs to understand his position in the locality. No, what this house needs is something to really bring it alive again. As in the old days. Before the war".

"So, what is it that you intend to do?" she asked, now holding out her hands once more towards the stove.

"We shall give a grand party. For all of our friends ... and neighbours, hereabouts".

Edith smiled.

Of course, were the guests to be restricted to those they deemed friends, then, with their social circle being so small, it was hardly like to be the magnificent affair which Friedrich envisaged. Nonetheless, it was still a wonderful idea on his part and she loved him all the more for proposing it.

Even so, many of their immediate neighbours did not know, and if they did, did not approve, of the domestic situation here at Rosenberg and because of that, Edith had serious misgivings as to the advisability of what Friedrich now proposed. What people thought of her, mattered not one whit - as Friedrich had said, sticks and stones - but never for an instant would she have darling little Max suffer on her account.

* * *

 **Somewhere in London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

"Don't ask questions!" Max grinned; tapped the side of his nose. Something, the meaning of which, he had learned a long time ago from both Danny and Rob.

And that was all he would say on the matter presently under discussion, as to just how it was that he had been able to procure for her both the beautiful underwear and the silk stockings; Claire having voiced aloud the suspicion that Max might have bought them on the Black Market.

"And? So what if I have?"

Claire shook her head.

"Max, darling ..."

An enemy alien who, by rights along with his father should have been interned. Indeed, save for strings having been pulled, first by Max's Uncle Matthew, and then by the SOE, but only because they wanted to make use of Max's language skills, _would_ have been interned, now running the risk of being caught buying goods on the Black Market. Claire sighed. Over the last months, his health had been good too. Deceptively so. But even the proverbial cat had only nine lives. Surely there was a limit to Max's good fortune. And now this.

"Don't you like them? Because if you don't ..."

"I love them! But it's _you_ I'm thinking of! If anything was to happen to you. And all because of a ruddy pair of silk stockings!"

"Silly! Nothing's going to happen to me. Now, let's both wash and change!"

"And then will you tell me, please, what's going on?"

"Perhaps!" Max grinned and winked. "Wash and change first though!" he called out cheerily as, having taken off his jacket and now beginning to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt, Max disappeared off into the dressing room, leaving Claire alone to ponder anew what all of this betokened.

* * *

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, January 1932.**

Tonight, for those approaching it, glimpsed through a flurry of snowflakes, Rosenberg looked truly magnificent; the imposing, many windowed front facade of the ochre-coloured schloss, a welcoming blaze of electric light, set against the pitch blackness of the winter night.

Somewhat closer at hand, immediately in front of the house, where the gravelled drive curved around in a semicircle, a seemingly endless procession of motors were moving slowly forward and, with their occupants having alighted, promptly drawing away.

* * *

Inside the schloss, a warm welcome awaited all of those invited here tonight at the behest of Friedrich. Despite the winter weather, the outer front doors stood wide open to admit a constant stream of guests who, once they had passed through the glazed doors of the vestibule into the hall, where they were greeted by their host, then dispersed to become indistinguishable from those already here. An ever swelling, animated mêlée of people who, midst the ebb and flow of polite conversation, and to the sound of the small orchestra seated in the ballroom playing a succession of lively pieces, had spread throughout all of the principal ground floor rooms, while white gloved footmen moved discretely to and fro bearing silver salvers laden with glasses of champagne.

While the ladies bedazzled in their bejewelled, fashionable finery, and many of the male guests were in evening attire, there were also more than a smattering of gentlemen in full dress uniform. Not that of the Heimwehr, nor indeed those of any of the other military organisations, the very existence of which was such an affront to Friedrich.

For the uniforms worn here tonight harked back to a more ordered time, recalling the vanished splendour of the empire which had passed into history in 1918. Worn by those who, for the most part, counted themselves fortunate to have survived the Great War in which they had fought firstly for the Old Man and then for the last two years of that conflict, for his great nephew and successor the last emperor, Karl. Photographs of both of whom stood on a table placed in the entrance hall directly beneath an enormous flag, hanging from the marble balustrade of the central landing of the staircase, its colours admittedly a little faded and the edges slightly frayed. Not, of course, that of the Republic, the rump state that these days passed for Austria but the red, white, and green flag of Austria Hungary bearing upon it not only the Imperial Crown of the former empire, but also the Apostolic Crown of St. Stephen, the Holy Crown of Hungary.

However, with symbols of a vanished empire decidedly to the fore, and his chosen profession of archaeologist known to one and all, if it should be thought that all Friedrich was interested in was the past, the present was very much in evidence too. And that in the guise of two people, the first of whom was standing by Friedrich's side. An undeniably attractive woman wearing an exquisite midnight blue velvet on chiffon gown, a creation by Mayer of Vienna, and jewellery of a dazzling quality - a diamond tiara, along with a matching necklace and ear rings.

But for all of this, it was the youngster standing beside her who drew the most comment; a handsome, sandy haired, self assured young boy, smart in a white sailor suit with a blue collar, extending his hand to each and every arriving guest in exact imitation of his father. For, from his looks, there was no gainsaying his parentage.

And if anyone among the throng chose this moment to recall to mind that Friedrich had been widowed at the end of the war and had not, as far as they were aware, remarried ... so far, no-one had made any comment to this effect. Or, even if they had, it had not yet reached the ears of the three people most directly concerned. Of course, only time would tell if this tacit reserve held good for the rest of the evening.

For young Max, standing in line with his parents to receive their guests, it was his first real experience of such formality, he rising to the occasion and drawing approving nods from one and all. Until that was, he saw Papa suddenly stiffen, markedly so, whisper something hurriedly to Mama, nodded towards the man and woman who now stood next but one in line, waiting to be welcomed here tonight to Rosenberg.

* * *

 **Somewhere in London** , **Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

Now bathed and fully dressed, wearing not only her pale blue dress but also beneath it the new silk underclothes which Max had bought her, blushing furiously, Claire came out of the bathroom, to find Max already standing waiting for her. Washed, freshly shaved - something she normally did for him each morning and thank God for safety razors - smartly attired in shirt, white bow tie, and suit. Seeing her, he smiled.

"You look an absolute picture," he said; offered Claire his arm. Was surprised when, slowly, she shook her head. Instead, sat down on the bed. This had gone on long enough. She could be stubborn too.

"Not until you tell me," she said emphatically.

"Tell you what?"  
"Just _what_ is going on. And, be very sure of one thing".

"Which is?"

"I'm not leaving here wherever it is we are, until you do".

"Well, if you insist".  
"I most certainly do".

Max sighed; sat down heavily on the bed beside her. Then, took her hands gently in his own.

"Claire, darling, remember last Christmas, when I wasn't very well ..." Claire nodded.

"How on earth could I possibly ever forget!"

"Well, I know what we both agreed, I mean about the money lent to us by Rob and Saiorse. All the same, to make up for last year, even before the good news about Rob, I wanted to make this Christmas special. So, this morning, after you left, I packed that suitcase with some of our things and then I ..."

* * *

As Max continued to explain what it was that he had done, Claire's eyes misted with tears. That he should have contrived all of this especially for her, made what he had said earlier this evening standing outside the Windmill Theatre, that he didn't deserve her, sound all the more ridiculous.

It was now that Claire learned that, when Max had first confided in his mother a couple of weeks earlier what it was he had in mind, that Edith had said she would ask his Aunt Mary to telephone the Frewells - who with the Blitz had decamped down to Norfolk, over to their place close to King's Lynn - and ask if Max and Claire might make use of their townhouse as somewhere to wash and change before they headed out to wherever it was Max was taking her tonight. And on which, he still refused, resolutely, to be drawn.

As far as Claire was concerned, that her mother-in-law had played a part in all of this, came as no surprise. None whatsoever. Over the last year or so, she had become increasingly fond of Max's mother; recognising in her a kindred spirit. That apart, Claire knew that both of them loved Max dearly.

* * *

"So will you tell me now, where it is that we are going?" she asked as, arm in arm, they set off down the corridor towards the head of the main staircase of the hitherto mysterious house.

Max grinned.

"Wait and see!"

* * *

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, January 1932.**

Edith glanced down briefly at Max, singularly unaware that his mother's eyes were upon him, before bracing herself for what she had no doubt at all would turn out to be a very unpleasant encounter.

"Friedrich, my dear chap ..."

"Manfred". The two men shook hands. "I wasn't at all sure that you'd come".

"Really? I wouldn't have missed this for the world. Like the rest of the family, I've been dying to meet ... " Manfred's eyes slid silently in the direction of Edith who now stood impassive, as if carved out of ice. Saw the young boy standing beside her, look at him.

"Then, they should have honoured us with their presence, instead of their regrets," observed Friedrich coldly.

"Quite so". Manfred paused. "Friedrich, may I present the Baroness Arnstein. Eva, my dear, my cousin, Friedrich".

"Baroness," Friedrich executed a perfect _baisse main_ ; raised a quizzical eyebrow at his cousin, but before he could say anything at all, Manfred sought hurriedly to explain.

"Julia is, I believe, presently somewhere in mid-Atlantic, on board the _Bremen,_ sharing a State Room with her Russian count, bound for a new life in the United States _._ God help them! Good riddance, is what I say!"

Friedrich nodded his head sympathetically.

"My dear fellow. It must be dreadful for you. I'm so very sorry".

Manfred shrugged dismissively.

"Thank you. All's fair they say ... But then, what family doesn't have its share of both ups and downs?"

* * *

 **The Ritz Hotel, Piccadilly, London, England, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

" **Here**?" Claire was completely disbelieving; taking in the imposing façade of the magnificent building which now hove into view before them and which, despite its cross taped windows and protective sandbags, still managed to project an appearance of both grandeur and opulence, as though the war was but a minor inconvenience; which for many of its wealthier patrons was indeed still the case.

At the outbreak of hostilities, as had been the case with the Frewells, many wealthy Londoners had been forced to shut up their townhouses as they became impossible to run without servants - who had found they could earn far better wages by working in the armament factories.

However, for those of the upper classes, many of whom did not even know how to boil an egg but who nonetheless did choose to stay put here in the capital, albeit with a much reduced domestic staff and most of their houses shut up for the duration of the war, in the evenings, now proceeded to dine out in town; in one or more of the upper class restaurants and hotels which were permitted to continue serving expensive food and wines, no longer available privately. It was said that no lesser person than the Prime Minister himself, Winston Churchill, had decreed that this be so, in order that public morale didn't suffer.

So, at the Dorchester in Mayfair, in the Savoy over on the Strand, and here at the Ritz on Piccadilly, so long as no meal in any of their restaurants was priced at more than five shillings and did not consist of more than three courses, those with money were able to escape the rigours and restrictions of rationing and continue to enjoy an excellent cuisine washed down with the finest wines.

Max nodded.

"Of course. Why ever not?" He grinned; now offered Claire his arm which she took immediately, more for reassurance than either for convention or propriety.

"But ..."

"You see the woman there ahead of us? The one in the leopard skin coat?" Max's voice had sunk to a whisper.

"The one on the arm of the officer?"  
"Yes".

"That's one of the sisters of King Zog".

"Zog?"  
"The King of Albania. He and his family are living here in England. In exile. Just like the Schönborns". While Max laughed, Claire grimaced.

"What?" Max asked, catching sight of Claire's expression.  
"This ... this isn't me Max".

"Yes, it is".

Claire shook her head.

"No more than the show at the Windmill was ever you".

"That was different. Trust me". He squeezed her arm reassuringly.

They had now reached the flight of steps at the front of the hotel where, as arm in arm Max and Claire passed by him, the liveried doorman, taking them both for what, on the surface, they appeared they were, a wealthy young couple, merely smiled, respectfully touched the brim of his top hat. A moment later with Max exuding an air of supreme confidence and Claire doing her very best to follow suit, they were inside, and walking nonchalantly across the grand entrance hall of London's finest hotel.

* * *

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, January 1932.**

"Indeed".

"And this ..." began Friedrich but before he could say anything further, Manfred again interposed thus sparing Friedrich any embarrassment.

"You must be Edith, I presume? Why, Friedrich, she's absolutely enchanting! Delighted, I'm sure. I've heard such a very great deal about you. Friedrich's a lucky man. And this fine young fellow must be Max ..."

* * *

 **The Ritz Hotel, Piccadilly, London, England, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

Claire had gone off, _to powder her nose_ , or so she had said. A euphemism if ever there was one. For, to be truthful the champagne Max had ordered them had gone straight to her head, just as it had done at Rob and Saiorse's wedding. So, while he waited for her to return, seated alone at the table in the alcove, Max sat quietly, taking in both the refined atmosphere and the luxurious surroundings of this magnificent hotel; a far cry from their shabby flat in Whitechapel.

Then, Max's thoughts turned once more, and understandably so, to Rob.

With the needless, tragic deaths earlier this year, first of Danny's brother Bobby in an air raid on Dublin, and then that of Granny Cora, killed when that German bomber had crashed onto the Dower House in Downton, the wonderful news that Rob was alive, of his escape from Occupied France was just what the family needed. And, with confirmation of the same being received by the SOE on Christmas Eve, it could not have come at a better time for all concerned. Max was so very chuffed that it had fallen to him to be the one to telephone Downton and give Uncle Matthew the marvellous news. Saiorse must be absolutely delighted and so too all the rest of the family. Lost in thought, with the pile of the carpets here in the Ritz being both deep and soft, Max failed to hear the sound of approaching footsteps. Did not, until he spoke, see the man now standing gazing at him from beneath the archway of the alcove.

"May I trouble you for a light?" asked a well spoken voice close at hand.

Undeniably startled, Max looked up to see standing opposite him, a young RAF officer, holding between two fingers of his right hand, an unlit cigarette. The blue serge uniform served once again to remind Max of Rob but here any other similarity between the two men ended. For one thing this chap was dark haired and for another ... The young officer moved forward from where was standing; proffered Max the contents of his open silver cigarette case.

"Here, take one".

Max shook his head.

"No, thank you. I don't smoke".

"No matter". The officer replaced his own cigarette in the case; snapped shut the lid. Then, without further ado, indicating the chair opposite Max, promptly seated himself at the table. "I don't think I 've seen you in here before? Flight Lieutenant Henshaw ... Ambrose".

The officer half rose, held out his hand. It would have been ill-mannered, even churlish, not to respond in the manner which convention expected. The two men shook hands; Max noticing that the other let his hand linger within Max's grasp just a fraction longer than was strictly necessary.

"Schönborn ... Max".

"Schönborn?"

Max nodded.

"My father's Austrian. My mother English".

"I see. Well, Max ... May I call you Max?" Henshaw took the other's silence to be consent. "Then, thank you, _Max_ , for making all of that perfectly clear. Careless talk you know ... " Henshaw looked about him; laughed nervously.

Max smiled.

"Schönborn," repeated Henshaw airily. "Now that I come to think of it, I'm pretty sure my own people are acquainted with a family of that name".  
"Your people?"  
"Yes, of Netherfield Park, down in Sussex". Henshaw glanced about him at the palatial surroundings of the hotel. "They often stay here when up in town. In case you were wondering how I ..."

Max nodded disinterestedly; shook his head.

"I wasn't," he said softly. Was fully aware that Lieutenant Henshaw was clearly taking pains to try and establish a connection between their two families where Max knew none existed; the reason for which was only all too obvious. And because of that, at least on his part, Max began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Of course, he was well aware that such men existed; there had been those two young chaps out from Vienna, an artist and his friend, who had rented a cottage on the estate at Rosenberg before the war. But while Max's parents had brought both Kurt and he up to be aware of the existence of all kinds of people, all the same ...

"So with my people knowing yours ..."

"Maybe. But I think not". Max shook his head

"Oh? Really?"

"Yes, really. You see, until the Anschluss, my family and I lived in Austria. We only arrived here in England, just last summer. As refugees. So, it's very unlikely that ..."

"Well, no matter". Unfortunately Henshaw chose not to take Max's well intentioned hint. "All the same, I'm very glad to make your acquaintance, Max. Look, old boy, I'm absolutely parched. Fancy a drink? The bar ... the one downstairs ... is supposed to be very rum. If you follow what I mean". Looking furtively about him, Henshaw slid his left hand across the table until his fingers came to rest on Max's forearm and squeezed lightly; making perfectly clear, if any such clarity was needed, as to the nature of his interest.

Max shook his head; gently withdrew his wrist from out of the other's hold. Glanced once again towards the archway. Then breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Claire come through it and walk purposefully over towards their table. Saw her frown, decidedly so, at the sight of the man now seated opposite him, with his hand resting on Max's wrist and who was evidently trying to engage her handsome young husband in conversation.

"No, thank you. I'm waiting for my wife".

"Your **wife**?" Henshaw flushed. "But I thought you ..."

Max said nothing.

"Lucky girl!"

Max nodded.

"And I'm a lucky man. Would you like to meet her?" Max nodded again, this time towards Claire. Scarcely were the words out of Max's mouth, than Henshaw rose quickly to his feet, just as Claire herself reached the table. Max also stood up. "May I introduce my wife? Claire, darling, this is Flight Lieutenant Henshaw".

The lieutenant and Claire spared each other the briefest of handshakes.  
"Charmed, I'm sure," said Claire, her facial expression completely at variance with her words.

"The more I think about it, I'm not at all sure now that the name of the family was Schönborn". Henshaw smiled dejectedly at Max.  
"Some other then," offered Max quietly, giving the lieutenant at least a discrete means of withdrawal from what otherwise was proving to be a very embarrassing situation. At least, for Henshaw.

"Yes, er ...I suppose it must have been" stammered the lieutenant. He looked at Max; more briefly at Claire. Glanced at Max again. A lingering look. "Pity," he said softly, his voice wistful, tinged with evident regret, before disappearing quickly through the archway, presumably in the direction of the bar downstairs.

"So, what on earth was all that about?" asked Claire briskly seating herself once more at the table.

Max shook his head.

"Oh, it was nothing".

"No, go on, tell me".

"I think I'd rather not".

"And I'd much rather that you did".

"Well, in Rob's own words, I suspect that you've just managed to save the lieutenant there from making _a complete and utter ass of himself_!"

"Really?"  
"Yes, really".

"Well, I suppose it's hardly surprising ..."  
"What is?"

"After all, you are very good looking".

"What's that to do with it?" asked Max, smiling nonetheless at the compliment Claire had paid him.  
"Everything! All the same, darling, I would very much prefer it, if, while my back is turned, men of a certain persuasion do not try and engage my handsome husband in private conversation!"  
"Claire!" Max sounded utterly appalled.

"There, I've shocked you, haven't I?"  
"Yes, you have!"

"Why?"  
"Well, because ..."

"Because what?"  
"Because ..."

"Because I know about such things. Or because I realise just what that young officer was trying to do?"  
"Both!"  
"Oh, Max, darling, really!

At that they both laughed.

Max leaned over for a kiss to which Claire responded with alacrity.

"I'm sorry," he said when they broke apart.

They stood up.

"Don't be; it's not your fault," said Claire, now squeezing his arm reassuringly, as together, they set off along the carpeted hallway of the hotel.

 **Author's Note:**

 _Puttin' On The Ritz_ is a song written by Irving Berlin in May 1927, published in December 1929, the title a take on the slang expression "to put on the Ritz", meaning to dress very fashionably, in turn inspired by the Ritz Hotel.

Because of the suicide of his son and heir, Crown Price Rudolf at Mayerling in January 1889, and later the murder of his nephew and new heir, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, at Sarajevo in June 1914, Franz Joseph was succeeded, in November 1916, by his great nephew, Archduke Karl.

Established in 1927, Atelier-Mayer was an important Vienna fashion house.

Safety razors were invented in the late nineteenth century, disposable blades came in 1904, but both only became popular in the aftermath of the Great War.

 _Bremen_ \- the SS. Bremen, a German liner, built in 1928 for Norddeutscher Lloyd, sailing between Europe and America.

The Ritz Hotel in London opened in 1906. During WWII, while it never received a direct hit, the hotel was damaged nine times and its restaurant closed twice.

Following the Italian invasion of Albania in 1939, King Zog of the Albanians (1895-1961) his extended family (including his six sisters) and their entourage fled into exile, eventually settling in England; initially taking over, it is said, one entire floor of the Ritz, and stories abound of what ensued while the Albanian royal family lived at the hotel. By this time (December 1941) they had decamped to Parmoor, a country house in Buckinghamshire to escape the Blitz, but the king and his family still came back up to London.

With regard to Max's encounter at the Ritz, at the time of the story the hotel was described as being "notoriously queer" with the basement bar being known as the _Pink Sink_ , "too chic, too popular and above all, too queer for the authorities". The words are those of Felix Hope-Nicholson (1921-1990) a British aristocrat who was often seen socialising at the Ritz during WWII.

And finally, someone wrote and asked me why, in the ballroom scenes at Rosenberg, I did not have Edith and Max waltz to _Edelweiss._ Firstly, of course, the title of the story is _The Snow Waltz_. Secondly, and rather more importantly, however delightful, at the time of the story, the tune _Edelweiss_ had not been written. Nor, despite its name, is it even Austrian, having been composed by Rodgers and Hammerstein, specifically for the 1959 Broadway production of "The Sound of Music".


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Would You Do Me The Honour?

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

With Robert missing in action, presumed killed, with the tragic, confirmed deaths earlier in the year too, first of young Bobby Branson over in Ireland, one of the casualties of the bombing of the Northside of Dublin in May and then Cora, Dowager Countess of Grantham, likewise killed but a couple of months later, in July, when here at Downton a bullet ridden, blazing Heinkel bomber had crashed down on the Dower House, the resulting inferno incinerating all those inside, for the Crawleys, 1941 had been a truly appalling year.

With Simon now a Lance Corporal in the Royal Army Medical Corps, having been posted out to the Far East, to Singapore, here in Britain the relentless bombing of the country by the Luftwaffe, as well as all the shortages caused by the ever worsening rationing, with the war continuing to claim yet more and more lives, across now almost the entire surface of the globe, at Downton Abbey there had been very little to celebrate and, understandably, a decided absence of festive cheer.

Accordingly, for those sitting beside the ornately carved Adam fireplace in the Drawing Room of the abbey, Matthew, Mary, Friedrich, Edith, and Saiorse, even if they had all agreed to try and put a brave face on all of it, to make the best of things, if only for the sakes of Rebecca, Kurt, Emily, and the twins Alexander and Sorcha, not of course that save for Rebecca any of the younger children were really old enough to know what was going on, Christmas 1941 was looking likely to prove a very muted affair. The customary toast made at this festive time here and elsewhere and at Downton beside this very hearth, _To absent friends_ , would this year doubtless, inevitably, take on both an especial poignancy and sadness.

Then the telephone had rung.

And in that instant, everything was changed.

* * *

Following Max's unexpected telephone call here to the abbey, giving the family the wonderful news about Rob, while everyone here at Downton both above and below stairs were still digesting the fact that not only was young Robert Crawley both alive and well but would very shortly be on his way home to England from Gibraltar, Matthew had rung for Pickard and asked that he bring up a couple of the few remaining bottles of the Chateau de Mareuilsay Montebello '37, last served at Rob and Saiorse's wedding back in July 1940.

Thereafter, with Robert's good health having been toasted in bumpers of champagne, with Saiorse at length having said goodnight to everyone and gone upstairs to look in on the twins, seated beside the fireplace in the Drawing Room, while Friedrich listened on with obvious amusement to Edith who was explaining, and in some detail, to both Matthew and Mary just what it was that Max had planned this evening by way of a Christmas surprise for Claire since the young couple would not be able to join the rest of the family here at Downton until early in the New Year.

"So, there you both have it".

At last, Edith fell silent. She sat gazing pensively into the flames of the fire, her innermost thoughts momentarily miles away, up in London, hoping earnestly that darling Max and Claire were enjoying themselves. That above all, even if it had been only a matter of a couple of hours since he had telephoned here, that they were both safe and well, and, despite his bland assurances to her on the telephone, after he had finished speaking with his uncle, that Max **was** taking the very greatest care of himself. She knew that with Claire beside him, Max was in a very capable pair of hands but for all that, Edith still worried which, given the circumstances of his health, was only to be expected.

"Taking her dancing, at the Ritz? Is he now?" Mary lofted a brow and set down her now empty glass. "So, _that_ was the reason why you asked me to telephone the Frewells down in Norfolk, about letting Max and Claire make use of the town house in St. James's Place".

Edith nodded.

"Yes. Although, to be truthful, I'm not entirely certain that at that precise moment, Max had actually decided on the Ritz but given how close it is, I mean to St. James's Place, it seemed to make eminent sense".

"Honestly, that boy ..." Mary shook her head good naturedly. "He's an incurable romantic!"

"Then clearly he takes after his Uncle Tom!" chuckled Matthew.

"Oh, I don't know. What about you, darling? After all, you do have your moments!"

" **Me**? Do I?" Matthew sounded surprised.

"Yes, **you** , darling! Who else?"

* * *

Mary smiled warmly at her husband. She squeezed his knee affectionately, something which once upon a time she would never have done; at least, not in public, even here within the privacy of the family. However, over the years, Mary had mellowed, even if for the most part she still clung stubbornly to tradition. Disapproved, decidedly so, of the changes the war was wreaking on society. The world she knew, and in which she felt secure, was fast disappearing and at an alarming rate of knots. What would once have been considered completely unacceptable was now tolerated.

Witness the runaway marriage between Max and Claire last year.

After all, had it not been for the war, the two of them never would have even met; let alone married. While Mary would now readily concede that Claire was a delightful girl, one who knew how to ride and enjoyed doing so, even she said, _to hounds_ , down in distant Devonshire, something which naturally endeared her to Mary, Claire Barton, as she had been, was hardly a suitable match for Max. Although, but only because Mary herself had a very soft spot for her Austrian nephew, having, when he was a little boy, saved his life at a significant risk to her own, in Florence, in the summer of 1932, Mary was prepared to make the best of the situation. And, besides, it was obvious to one and all that young Max clearly adored his wife.

Then, of course, there had been the other, earlier marriage which could be said to have led, indirectly, to the one that followed hard upon it, and which, at least for Mary herself, had come much closer to home: that between her son Robert and her niece, his cousin, Saiorse. Not to put too fine a point upon it, as everyone in the family knew, as children the pair of them had always been at loggerheads. And while her daughter-in-law had clearly been utterly distraught when Robert had been posted missing in action, Mary was not entirely sure that the marriage would ever have taken place had, to put it bluntly, Saiorse kept her legs together.

That somewhat mean-spirited thought made Mary think of the end result: namely, the twins now hopefully asleep upstairs.

As far as babies went, not that Mary had much experience of them at all, saving of course the undoubted fun of their procreation, thereafter having left everything else associated with the upbringing of her own four children in the more than capable hands of Nanny Bridges, little Alexander and Sorcha, seemed delightful enough.

And, of course, being _grandchildren_ , they were possessed of one supreme advantage over one's own offspring: that if they became even slightly fractitious, Mary could immediately hand them back into the care of their doting mother who presently, it seemed, partly to keep herself busy, was hell bent on doing everything for them herself. Even the feeding and changing. Poor old Nanny Bridges had been most put out. Indeed, she still was.

Then there was the seemingly insignificant matter of the names which had been bestowed upon the twins.

Like the sending, first of Robert, and then of Simon, to the grammar school in Ripon where they had gone as day boys, as opposed away to public school at Harrow where they would have boarded, the naming of the twins had been another break with Crawley family tradition. With his love of all things Classical, _Alexander_ had been suggested to his niece, now his daughter-in-law, by none other than Matthew himself, while _Sorcha_ , had been Saiorse's own choice; a clear nod to her own wild Hibernian antecedents.

And there had been, too, the question of the christening with which, had she not taken matters in hand, a month or so after the twins had been born, and then arranged the whole thing herself, Mary thought it unlikely that, with Robert missing in action and Tom and Sybil unwilling to risk the sea crossing over from Ireland, Saiorse would have even bothered.

 _It's not really Rob's and my sort of thing, Aunt M_ ," Saiorse had said airily, when Mary had tackled her daughter-in-law about it. That use of the diminutive _Rob_ as opposed to _Robert_ and calling her _Aunt M_ , both of which Mary detested, rankled. Decidedly so. For, despite the fact that Mary was now Saiorse's mother-in-law, Saiorse flatly refused to call her _Mama_. When Mary had asked her about this, Saiorse's reply had been perfunctory:

 _Ma's in Ireland._

There was nothing more to be said and there this particular matter had rested.

However, as to the christening, in this at least, Mary was adamant, if not obdurate.

Whether Robert himself was alive or dead and in her heart Mary inclined to the latter being the more likely even if she kept this to herself, with German U boats operating at will in the Irish Sea and Tom and Sybil therefore not being prepared to attempt the crossing over from Ireland, made no difference. Here at Downton, generations of Crawleys, both male and female, had been baptised down at St. Mary's church, before and after the Reformation, and this was one tradition which Mary insisted **would** be upheld. So, probably for no other reason than keeping the peace, Saiorse let _Aunt M_ have her own way, and Alexander and Sorcha were duly christened together down at St. Mary's.

All this apart, Mary still had serious reservations about Robert and Saiorse's marriage; wondered if, despite the marvellous news conveyed here this evening in Max's telephone call, that Robert was alive, was coming home, whether in the end the matrimonial union between Crawley and Branson would stand the test of time. But then even if it did not, divorce no longer bore the social stigma which it had once done. After all ...

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

"But, I never ...

"Or have you forgotten the delightful surprise which you arranged for me up in Scotland back in the autumn of '36, just before news of the affair between our former king and that brash, vulgar, American divorcée broke in the newspapers?"

Matthew blushed; charmingly so.

That Scottish idyll had taken place in the aftermath of the trip Matthew had undertaken, that very same year, when he and Robert then fifteen years old, with Tom, and Danny aged sixteen, and Friedrich along with Max, thirteen, had all travelled over to the Isle of Man for that year's TT. The arrangements for the excursion had been shrouded in secrecy, so as to ensure that not a word of it reached the ears of young Max who, as a result of a bad fall in the garden at Rosenberg, necessitating a blood transfusion, had been prevented from meeting up with both his uncles and with Danny and Rob at the Swiss Grand Prix at Bremgarten in the summer of 1934.

But, while Matthew and Tom initially managed to keep the details of all of what had been planned from both Mary and Sybil - so as to avoid them spilling the beans to Edith - Mary became convinced that Matthew was having an affair with someone named Mona; had fathered a child on her. Had then been made to feel exceptionally foolish when all of what she had suspected turned out to be nothing of the sort and that, in fact, Matthew had gone to the trouble of arranging a second honeymoon for them up in Scotland. Something which was true enough. But only because Tom had suggested to his English brother-in-law that it might be for the best if he did; Matthew freely admitting to Tom that it was something which he himself would never have thought of doing, what with the demands made upon him both by the estate as well as by his involvement with the League of Nations in Geneva. Not that Mary ever learned the truth of it. But, had she done so, doubtless it would only have served to confirm what she and Sybil had long suspected; that Matthew and Tom were as thick as a pair of thieves.

The memories, for Matthew, of that second honeymoon, which he himself had planned, surreptitiously, for Mary and he, staying at a secluded hotel, close to Banchory, in Aberdeenshire, up in Scotland, not far from the royal estate at Balmoral, was something which Matthew, and indeed Mary, would never forget. A time which had enabled them to rekindle the early passion of their marriage which had by now settled into a more or less pleasing, predictable domesticity. Dinner invitations from friends and relatives in the district had been steadfastly declined. And while, much to Mary's chagrin the new king and _that woman_ \- the ghastly Mrs. Simpson - were nowhere to be seen, Matthew and Mary were too attentive to, and enamoured of each other, to be bothered by either the scheming wiles of a vulgar American divorcée or her suitability as the wife and consort of a neophyte king.

"Now, would that be the very same _brash, vulgar, American divorcée_ whom you hoped you'd catch a glimpse of up at Balmoral?" Matthew laughed.

Mary grimaced.

"Well, as a matter of fact, yes. But ... only because, darling ... if the opportunity had afforded itself ... which as you know it didn't, I wanted to try and see for myself what it was about the woman that could possibly make her so damned alluring that our former king was prepared to abdicate both his throne and his responsibilities. After all, as Queen Mary herself said, _T_ _his is not Roumania_! And from the photographs I've seen of the woman since, she's neither young nor beautiful. She isn't rich and didn't have a title! And from what Sarah Coningsborough told me, apart from being a scheming harpy, she even tints her hair! Then of course there are those stories ... about what she did out there in the Far East!"

Edith cast a hurried glance at Friedrich; saw him smile. How times had changed! After all, had darling Papa and Mama still been alive there was no way on God's earth that the four of them would have been sitting here on Christmas Eve quietly discussing the sexual techniques ascribed to the awful Mrs Simpson, with which she was said to have ensnared the former king in her thrall and so enticed him away from his duties, both to the country and to the empire.

"Maybe". He shrugged, dismissively so. "But, given the fact that those stories are just that. Stories ..." Matthew turned, made to turn the dial of the radio beside him.

"Darling, must you, please? Tonight, of all nights".

Matthew stopped. His hand sketched space; poised in mid air.

"No, I suppose not". Matthew lowered his hand.  
"Now, darling, I don't see why the young people should have all the fun. Do you?"

Matthew looked up at his wife.

"No, of course not. So, just what do you have in mind?"

"I'd like to dance".

"Oh, Mary, what a wonderful idea! Yes, let's!" On seeing her sister was already rifling through the collection of recordings lying beside the gramophone, Edith laughed.

"Ah, here it is! Good! What we need now is a little more space. Matthew, Friedrich would you ..." Mary nodded in the direction of the settee before winding up the gramaphone, setting the recording she had selected on the turntable, lowering the stylus, and walking purposefully over towards where Matthew was standing, looking, she thought, a little forlorn.

"Lord Grantham, would you do me the honour?" Mary smiled; took hold of Matthew's right hand, placed her own purposefully on his shoulder.

"I'd be delighted!"

The gramophone crackled noisily before, a moment later, spilling out into the Drawing Room, came the infectious, swing beat of Glenn Miller's _In The Mood._

Now, as both Friedrich and Edith joined Matthew and Mary on the improvised dance floor, hearing what Mary had just asked of Matthew, Edith found herself thinking back to another Christmas, spent at Rosenberg ...

* * *

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, evening, Christmas Day, December 1931.**

"... so now with Papa having suggested that he and I host a soirée here, early in the New Year, we'll have to practice!" laughed Edith. Seated on the edge of her son's bed, she reached forward, smoothed back his hair from off his forehead. Save for the glow from the night light, the room was in complete darkness.

"You mean I'm allowed to be there too?" Eyes shining, but for all that sounding disbelieving of what he was hearing.

"Yes, darling. Your Papa thinks it's high time everyone hereabouts met you. Not only our friends from Vienna, the ones whom you've met before but other people too. Perhaps, even some of Papa's relatives".

"What about my English and Irish cousins? Danny, Robert ... all of them. Are they invited too?"  
"No, darling. How could they be? I'm sorry, but no".

"Oh!" Max was unable to hide his obvious disappointment. "I do so want to meet them, Mama," Max whispered, his eyes large and bright.

"And one day, you will".

"Promise?"  
"I promise.

"Thank you, Mama".

Outside on the landing, the grandfather clock began to chime the hour.

"It's time to say goodnight. Now, lie down and go to sleep". Edith stood up, bent down, tucked the blankets in more tightly. Her lips lightly grazed Max's forehead. She straightened up. Looked down at the little boy.

"Goodnight, my darling".

"Goodnight, Mama".

As she reached the door, Max sat up in bed.

"Mama?"

Edith turned.  
"Yes?"  
"I love you".

"And I love you too, my darling. Now, lie down".

"Yes, Mama".

Edith smiled at her young son, before quietly opening the door of the bedroom and letting herself out onto the landing.

Not that either of then could have known it at the time but the New Year of 1932 would see young Max's dearest wish realised.

* * *

 **La Popote du Ritz, London, England, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

Claire looked sideways at Max.

"I suppose it's just as well that young lieutenant didn't know".  
"Didn't know? didn't know what?"

"That I have very sharp claws".

Claire's nails were a particular vanity of hers and, with this in mind, all things considered, at this precise moment, Max thought Claire was akin to a lioness whose mate had been threatened. And with that knowledge, his heart soared.

Now, had Flight Lieutenant Henshaw but known it, arm in arm with Claire, Max was now following in his very footsteps, down the stairs leading to the basement of the hotel. Not, however, to the _Pink Sink_ , but to the former Grill Room, now renamed, and recently so, as "La Popote" **,** about which Max had heard from Jimmy Ramsden, who also worked for the SOE. There was, said Jimmy, no need to book.

"One simply turns up, old chap and if necessary, waits until a table becomes free".

* * *

 **Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, January 1932.**

Hearing Manfred's kind words, Edith smiled; swallowed hard, blinked back the tears that had threatened to fall. Until now, she had not met a single member of Friedrich's own family; knew that they had ostracised him, firstly on account of her and thereafter because of Max. Save for the unpleasant letter which Friedrich had received from one of his great aunts shortly after Max had been born, there had been no contact with any single one of them. Edith felt Max's hand suddenly brush against her. She looked down at him.

"Mama? Are you ... all right?" Max asked softly, looking up at her.

"Yes, perfectly. Thank you, my darling". Edith nodded; now extended her right hand towards Manfred. Their eyes met. He bent his head and the expected baisse main followed. Manfred straightened.

"We meet at last".

"So it would appear".

"My dear, as I said to Friedrich, you look positively enchanting. If this was a ball at the Schönbrunn, mark my words, you'd be turning heads".

Edith demurred.

Manfred smiled warmly back at her.

"It's not cant, I assure you. Cousin Friedrich will tell you that I'm not ever one to tell a woman that I admire her, unless I mean it. Isn't that so?"

Friedrich nodded.

"Then, thank you". Edith smiled.

"Friedrich, you really are a lucky man".

"Yes, I am. Thank you".

Manfred turned back to Edith.

"Permit me to introduce my ... companion, Eva".

Eva smiled happily at Edith, before glancing briefly at Manfred.

"Companion? Is **that** what I am? I've often wondered. Thank you for telling me" She laughed gaily before shaking hands with Edith.

"And you, young man ... must be Max". Manfred held out his hand once more.

"Yes sir".

"Delighted to meet you".

The two shook hands.

"And this, is Baroness Arnstein".

"Baroness". Max followed the example before him, both of his father and Papa's cousin; executed a perfect baisse main.

"Charming. And so very handsome too. He's a credit to the both of you," said Eva, now smiling in turn at both Friedrich and Edith. "And like Manfred, both of you should know that I never bestow a compliment unless it is justified, nor say anything which I don't mean".

* * *

 **La Popote du Ritz, London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

Here, down in the basement of the hotel, with its sand-bagged walls, timber pitprops, a makeshift chandelier, candles stuck into the necks of empty champagne, brandy, and wine bottles, utility tablecloths and, behind the band, a large mural portraying the desolation of the Western Front during the Great War with its depiction of both trenches and shell holes, la Popote had been contrived to resemble a large dugout. The only nod by way of "decoration" to the present conflict were caricatures painted on another war, of both Herr Hitler and Fatso Goering. La Popote, said Max, had even drawn a sneering comment in a broadcast made from Germany by Lord Haw-Haw, as somewhere the rich went when in London, in order to avoid the rigours of rationing.

While waiters, smart in their white tuxedos, moved effortlessly and discretely among the various tables, the very air was thick with the reek of cigarette smoke, mingled with the smell of brylcreem, cologne, scent, and sweat. A handful of the male patrons were in mufti, some like Max in evening attire, others in lounge suits - here there was no dress code - but most of the men present were officers in uniform. Mainly British Army but, by the accents Claire overheard, there were also Australians, Canadians, and New Zealanders too, along with a smattering of Free French and, by their uniforms and excited jabber, a handful of Poles. As for the women, it appeared few realised that there was even a war on. Expertly made up, all dressed in the height of pre-war fashion, many wearing exquisite silk evening gowns, bejewelled, some swathed in furs, either sat sipping a variety of brightly coloured cocktails or, along with their male partners, were to be seen tripping the light fantastic on the dance floor. Despite being beautifully, albeit simply dressed, Claire felt decidedly out of place and said as much to Max who merely smiled; told her that she outshone all of them.

The noise down here was deafening too, not just as a result of all the constant chatter and laughter but from the band now belting out _The_ _Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B_ perhaps for the benefit of the several American officers present. Aunt Mary, said Max with a wink, would definitely not have approved.

* * *

 **Ballroom, Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, January 1932.**

Seated on a chair beside the double doors of the Ballroom, Max looked on as his parents and some of their guests executed the intricate steps to a Ländler, an Austrian folk dance, and which, appeared to be much more complicated than those of the waltz which Max and his mother had practised together for the very first time on Christmas Day. As he continued to watch, above the music, snatches of conversation came fleetingly to his ears, about the weather, going hunting in the woods for wild boar, who had been at a house party which had been held somewhere or other, there had been more trouble in Vienna - Max thought briefly of Ezra and the others he had met in Leopoldstadt and hoped they were safe ...

Max's ears pricked up, suddenly aware that he himself was now the subject of conversation; knew too, intuitively so, that people were looking at him. Max blushed red.

"The boy? Well, just look at him. Isn't it obvious? He's Schonborn's ..."

The low laughter which came hard on the heels of this exchange was unlike any which Max had ever heard before. It certainly didn't sound like the laughter he was used to hearing - when, Papa and Mama found something amusing. And that word - _Rotzbengel_ \- spoken about himself, sounded as though it was something of which he ought to be ashamed, said as it had been in a half, hushed whisper.

* * *

The Ländler was drawing, inevitably, to its close but now, just before it did so, Baroness Arnstein seated herself on the empty chair next to him; saw Max's face was very red.

"What is it?" she asked quietly.

Max coloured still further.

"It's nothing," he said miserably and sniffed.

"Now, you don't strike me as the kind of boy to cry over nothing. So, let's both start by agreeing that isn't true, shall we?"

Max half turned on his chair; looked up at the Baroness. Something in her manner reminded him instinctively of Mama. What, he couldn't say but he found himself warming to this lady whom he had met for the very first time not an hour since. Now saw her bestow upon him a dazzling smile which gave Max the courage to ask her what he then did.

"May I ... may I ask you something first?" he asked hesitantly.  
"But of course".

"What's a Rotzbengel? Someone said that's what I am ... Papa's Rotzbengel".

* * *

 **La Popote du Ritz, London, England, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

While they themselves were in no sense rich, glancing around her, Claire thought that over there in Germany, traitor though he was, Lord Haw-Haw might just have had a point. For, apart from the clientele, down here in La Popote the food listed on the menu, elegantly typeset in French, and which Max now proceeded to translate for her into English and for which no ration coupons had to be produced, was decidedly far more varied, and indeed far more expensive, than what had been on offer in the Lyons Corner House on Coventry Street. So, even though it was only a couple of hours since they had eaten their comparatively frugal supper, as Max continued to read out the menu, perhaps it was only to be expected that Claire found her mouth beginning to water and her tummy to rumble.

 _Caviar_ , would you like to try it? Claire wasn't quite sure what it was but when Max explained what it comprised, salt-cured fish-eggs, for her that decided it. Definitely not. _Oysters in mignonette sauce ..._ had she ever eaten those? No. Best not said Max. Unless, of course, the sauce is very good ... Standing beside their table, waiting patiently while they made their choice, the dark haired waiter raised his eyebrows. _Smoked salmon in white-wine sauce_ , then? Claire nodded. With _new potatoes and asparagus tips._ It really sounded too delicious for words. Followed, said Max crisply to the waiter, by _praline ices_ and _coffee_.

"Real coffee?" Claire asked.  
Max nodded. Real coffee.

Momentarily, the young waiter let his mask slip again; looked at them newly askance. That here at the Ritz the mignonette sauce would not be exceptional? That the hotel would serve anything other than real coffee? The mask of inscrutability duly resumed its place. The waiter cleared his throat.

"And to drink, sir?"

* * *

"Max, is that really wise? I know if I have any more to drink, I shall be squiffy".

Max had now well and truly pushed the boat out and ordered another bottle of champagne which, after the waiter had brought it over to their table in an ice bucket, Claire was now eyeing with obvious concern.

"Why not?"

"Aren't you forgetting, what happened the last time you drank champagne, at Downton? At Rob and Saiorse's wedding?"

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Rose Garden, evening, 20th July 1940.**

Even though it was now well after nine o'clock, it was still very warm. Out of sight of the house and, they hoped, away from prying eyes and inquisitive ears, having taken off his jacket and undone his bow tie, Max leaned in to give Claire a kiss.

"Careful!" she warned, grabbing hold of him as, with his arm around her waist, in his enthusiasm, encumbered with a half empty bottle of champagne and two glasses, Max almost misjudged his footing on the stone steps leading up to the rose garden.

"Whoops! Must be the bubbly!" Max laughed; looked briefly at the label on the bottle. "Crikey! A Chateau de Mareuilsay Montebello '37! Good old Uncle Matthew!"

Claire, who had never drunk champagne before, merely smiled.

"Are you sure you're all right?"  
"I'm fine. No harm done".

"Really?"  
"Perfectly".

* * *

 **La Popote du Ritz, London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

Max grinned.

"When I asked you to marry me? Is that what you mean?"

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Rose Garden, evening,** **20th July 1940.**

"To us," proposed Max, raising his glass.

"To us!" echoed Claire with a laugh.

"Happy?"

"Yes!"

"Really?"  
"Yes! Of course. Oh, this is heavenly. It's so peaceful here. One could almost believe that there wasn't a war". Claire looked up at the darkening blue of the sky where now, almost as if to contradict her, at that very moment, far above them, there soared a British fighter, in its wake leaving a white vapour trail.

"Mind you, the rose garden at Rosenberg is far more beautiful. But then I suppose I'm biased. Did I ever tell you that from it you can see the Alps?"

"Yes, you did. It sounds lovely".

"One day, I should very much like to show it to you".

"I like your mother," said Claire brightly sipping her champagne once again. "And your father too".

"I'm very glad to hear it".

"Your brother, Kurt's a plucky little chap. My God, when I think what he and his mother must both have gone through over there in France! And all the while believing you and your father ..."

Gravely, Max nodded his head.

"Mama's always been very … _einfallsreich_ ... I'm not sure of the word in English. She knows ... knows what to do ... when things go wrong".

"Capable," offered Claire, now resting her head gently on his shoulder.

"Just so!" Max laughed. "Even so, I expect there's a great deal that she hasn't told us".

"Your Uncle Matthew's charming and your Uncle Tom's great fun. His wife's very sweet".

"Aunt Sybil. Yes, she is. Very".

"She asked me to tell her all about the London School of Medicine, when it was I decided I wanted to become a doctor. That sort of thing. But, as for your Aunt Mary, she was livid when I caught Saiorse's bouquet. And then asking me what time my train was on Sunday. In fact, I'm only surprised that she didn't offer to drive me down to the station herself!"

Max laughed.

"Aunt Mary can't even drive. She doesn't know how!"

"All the same, I think she'd far rather that we'd never even met!"

"That's silly. Anyway, don't worry about my Aunt Mary. She's like your father ... her bark is far worse than her bite!" .

"Perhaps," Claire said evenly.

Max knew that it was now or never. A moment later, having set down his glass on the seat, and before Claire realised what it was that he was doing, Max had slipped to one knee.

"Claire, will you marry me?" He gazed up at her, searching her face.

"Max ... I ..." Looking down at him, from his expression, she realised that he was in earnest.

"I know how I feel about you, Claire, and I think you feel the same way about me". Max rose to his feet, sat beside her once more, slipping his arm about her shoulders.

"And ... if I do ... what would your parents say? You, the son of an Austrian lord, marrying a English tenant farmer's daughter?"

"Papa's not a lord. And even if he was, they'd both be delighted".

"You really think so?"

Max nodded.

"Look, I know they're both very protective of me but they'll come round. I know they will".

"Maybe. But ... all of this ..." Spreading her hands wide, Claire indicated their surroundings. "Max, this isn't me. And, besides, we haven't known each other long".

"Love's not about that," he said quietly.

"No, you're right. It isn't".

"Will you at least promise me that you'll think about it?"

"Of course". Claire nodded her head.

"You will?"

"I've just said so, silly, haven't I?" She laughed as Max enfolded her in his arms covering her face with kisses. "Only ..."

"Only what?" He drew back.

"I think it's best we don't say anything, either to your parents ... or my Dad ... until we've decided what we're going to do".

"All right, if that's what you want".

Thereafter, as the sky continued to darken, with their arms around each other, they sat together in companionable silence, watching the Mead Moon as it rose slowly over Downton.

* * *

 **La Popote du Ritz, London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

"No. And you know it isn't".

"But this is Christmas Eve".

"Yes, I know that".

Max nodded.

"All right. Mea culpa. I know, I know. But, this time, I promise to be much more careful. Scout's honour and all that!"  
"Oh, Max, really! You were never even in the Scouts!"

"No, I wasn't. But, I wanted to be".

"Did you now? I never knew that".

"Well, I did".

"In Austria? **Are** there scouts in Austria?"

Max nodded.

"Yes. At least, there were. Of course, Mama would never let me join. Then the Nazis banned the movement back in '38. But since we arrived here in England, she's let Kurt join the cubs up there in Downton. You know, I'm quite jealous of him!"

Claire smiled. Knew that Max didn't mean that. There wasn't a jealous bone in his body; certainly not in relation to his young brother whom he loved very much.

"Anyway, enough about the Scouts!"

"Very well".

Max grinned and raised his glass. "To us," he said softly.

There was no gainsaying that.

"To us!" laughed Claire.

They set down their glasses.

The band was now playing again. This time it was _Moonlight Serenade_.

Max rose to his feet; held out his hand to her.

"Would you do me the honour?"

"Why, Mr. Schönborn, I thought you'd never ask. Of course". Smiling broadly, Claire grasped Max's proffered hand and let him lead her out into the middle of the crowded dance floor.

* * *

 **Ballroom, Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, January 1932.**

People, thought Eva, could be so very cruel.

Even, it seemed, to a child.

Which was unforgivable.

Yet, here in Austria, while it had been Manfred's wife who had left him, as his mistress, Eva, who hailed from Budapest, the capital of Hungary, had found herself ignored and snubbed, just as much as had Edith, by members of so-called polite society. Had experienced in equal measure, both prejudice and bigotry. Had been the subject too, of both gossip and tittle tattle. Gradually, she had become inured to it all, yet now, despite her carefully crafted carapace and poise, Eva was unable to contain her astonishment at what Max had just told her.

And it showed.

Markedly so.

The boy saw it too.

"Who on earth said that?"  
"Someone here, in this room. I don't know who exactly," said Max, looking about him, his voice faltering.

Eva was on the point of telling Max that he must be mistaken, that he had misheard but something stopped her from doing so. Knew that she had, in part, brought this upon herself by asking him in the first place, what it was that was the matter. He had been honest with her and she realised that here, for all of his young years, was someone with whom she should deal openly. If she could not unsay what had been said by denying that it had ever been spoken, then she could restore his pride in himself.

"Well, it's not a very nice thing to say, about anyone".

"Oh!" Max flushed; looked down at his feet. Not that he was surprised. In his heart he had known it must be so.

"Will you tell me something?" Baroness Arnstein asked brightly.

Max's head snapped up.

"What do you want to know?" he asked.  
"Who is it here, in this very room, who matters most of all to you?"

"Why, Papa and Mama". Max sounded puzzled that she should have asked him such a thing.

Eva nodded her head, evidently in full agreement.

"That was what I expected you to say".

"Then ..."

"Why do you suppose that to be so?"

"Because ..."

"Because you love them and they love you?"  
Max nodded.

"Yes. Very much," he whispered.

"You see, where people are concerned, what matters most, is that you have the love and respect of those that you yourself love and respect. When all is said and done, whatever others may say, or do, doesn't really matter. In fact, it doesn't matter at all".

Looking up, Max saw his mother standing in front of them. Quite how long she had been there was impossible to know, but evidently it had been time enough for her to have heard what was being said. Edith smiled down at Eva.

"Thank you, for those very kind words". She now turned her attention swiftly to Max. "As for you, young man, I think it's high time you were in bed. But before then, I've something to ask you".

"Mama?"  
"Would you do me the honour?" She held out her hand to him.

"Me, Mama?"

"Yes, you! Who else?"

Rising to his feet, it was only now that Max appreciated that everyone else present had drawn back to the sides of the room and, for the most part, had fallen silent.

He turned and bowed to the Baroness; executed another perfect baisse main. He raised his head; their eyes met.

"Thank you," Max said softly.

"Now, remember what I just told you," Eva said with a smile.

Max nodded his head.

"I will".

There was nothing further to be said.

To a ripple of softly appreciative applause, taking his mother by the hand, Max led her to the middle of the ballroom where he saw her turn and nod briefly to the small orchestra. Max bowed gravely from the waist and Mama sketched a curtsy. A moment later, as first tinkling notes of _The Snow Waltz_ spilled out across the vast room, they began to dance, before shortly thereafter those others present took to the floor, Max and his mother soon lost to sight, midst the swirling milieu of other couples.

* * *

 **La Popote du Ritz, London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.**

After the first couple of dances, followed in turn by their meal, which was excellent, Max and Claire had then spent more time back on the dance floor, both of them contriving, without knowing it, to turn heads: Max by his good looks and undoubted adroitness as a dancer and Claire by her fresh loveliness and natural charm.

When asked about it later, by some of her fellow students at medical school, exactly just how long they had spent dancing, Claire couldn't say, at least not with any degree of certainty, not only on account of the heady atmosphere of La Popote, but also because of that second bottle of champagne; neither of them being used to alcohol. Indeed, after a while, just as Claire had predicted, everything had begun to smudge and blur, turning by degrees into a delightful, warm haze.

Max was as convivial as ever. Clearly feeling in an expansive mood, he proceeded to share some of the second bottle of champagne with the couple seated at the next table: a young officer with the Worcestershire Regiment, one of the lucky ones rescued the previous year from off the beaches at Dunkirk, newly engaged, here tonight with his fiancée, a girl from the West Riding of Yorkshire, something which immediately helped to break the ice between the four of them.

What finally brought the evening to an end, at least for Max and Claire, was that, after yet another quick step, Max was forced to come clean and admit that his right knee was beginning to ache. Squiffy or not, that settled it. Thus far it had been a wonderful night but there was, said Claire, no earthly point in tempting Providence.

* * *

 **Green Park, London, early morning, Christmas Day, December 1941.**

When, after having said their goodbyes to Jack and Connie and promising to keep in touch, Max and Claire arm in arm, at last left the Ritz, the door opened for them by the same liveried doorman who, as before, respectfully touched the brim of his top hat, this time wishing both of them _Merry Christmas_ , and made their way down the carpeted steps of the grand hotel, it was well after midnight.

This early on Christmas morning the pavements were all but deserted, save for a handful of other late night revellers who, like themselves, were wending their way home, in some cases none too steadily. Both Max and Claire were feeling decidedly carefree but also exceedingly tired; very glad not to have to make the long journey out to Whitechapel. In any case, at this hour of the morning, the Underground would have stopped running.

So, it was just as well that their temporary lodgings for the night, at the Frewells' town house over in St. James's Terrace, lay but a stone's throw away from the Ritz. Breakfast they would take in the less splendid surroundings of the Lyons Corner House on Coventry Street before catching the Underground to their respective destinations: Max due at his desk with the SOE by nine and Claire at the London School of Medicine for Women in Bloomsbury for half past the same hour.

* * *

On the edge of Green Park, on Queen's Walk, within sight of Spencer House, despite his knee playing up, Max having been acting the fool, twirling Claire around on the path to the strains of an imaginary dance band, they came to a stand, he with his arm about her. A moment later and Claire saw Max gazing up, seemingly spellbound, at the night sky lit as it was by a myriad of shimmering stars.

"How on earth, with all of those to choose from, did the Wise Men ever decide which was the one which would lead them to the Christ Child?" he asked; the wonderment he was clearly feeling, evident in his voice.

"I don't know," said Claire. "Wasn't that particular star supposed to have been brighter than all the rest?"

"Maybe. Perhaps there weren't as many stars as there are now".

"Pick one then, to guide us home!" Claire giggled. As she had predicted it would, the champagne had made her slightly squiffy.

Max looked down at her and smiled; slowly, he shook his head.

"No need. Not when I have you," he said softly. "Mein Liebling, I absolutely adore you. Fröhliche Weihnachten".

Claire's eyes misted.

"And I love you too, Max. So very, very much. Merry Christmas!"

A moment later, ignoring the good natured cheers and wolf whistles from a passing party of high spirited jack tars, Claire's arms were around Max's neck, drawing his head down, her lips eagerly seeking his in a deep and ever lengthening kiss.

 _There"ll be bluebirds over_

 _The white cliffs of Dover_

 _Tomorrow_

 _Just you wait and see_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

For the deaths of both Bobby and Cora, see Chapter Fourteen of _The White Cliffs Of Dover_.

Adam fireplace - after Robert Adam, architect, (1728-92).

 _Riding to hounds_ \- going hunting.

Following the accession of Edward VIII, in January 1936, while the new king's close friendship with Wallis Simpson, an American divorcée, was being reported widely abroad, including their summer cruise in the Adriatic, the British press maintained a self-imposed silence on the whole matter. This ended abruptly in December of the same year when, following a speech, made by the appropriately named Alfred Blunt, then Bishop of Bradford, the British press made the story of the king and Mrs. Simpson's affair front page news.

For what happened in the Isle of Man, as well as Mary and Sybil's suspicions as to what Matthew and Tom were up to, see _Rain, Steam, And Speed_.

 _This is not Roumania -_ Queen Mary is alleged to have made this remark in relation to the affair between Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson. At the time, King Carol II of Roumania, known for his repeated affairs, divorced by his long suffering wife Princess Helen of Greece in 1928, was living openly with his mistress, Magda Lupescu.

During the late 1930s, and ever thereafter, rumours have abounded concerning the alleged immoral exploits of Wallis Simpson when married to her first husband, Commander Earl Winfield Spencer Jr. and the sexual techniques which she is said to have learned in Shanghai brothels while they were living out in China. In her defence, however widely believed, it should be said that no evidence has ever surfaced to substantiate the lurid claims made against her in this regard.

Schönbrunn - the former imperial summer palace in Vienna.

Released in January 1941, _The_ _Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B_ was a major hit for the Andrews Sisters.

While there are many Austrian folk dances, the Ländler is known the world over as a result of its appearance in _The Sound of Music_.

 _Rotzbengel_ \- snot nosed bastard.

"Mead Moon" is an old country name given to the full moon in July.

In 1938, following the Anschluss, the Nazis did indeed ban the scouting movement in Austria. Over 800 Scouts' leaders and Scouts left the country.

 _Moonlight Serenade_ \- another hit for Glenn Miller, first released in 1939.

 _Fröhliche Weihnachten - Merry Christmas._

Spencer House _-_ an eighteenth century mansion in St. James's, London. Today it belongs to Charles, ninth Earl Spencer, the brother of Diana, Princess of Wales.

Jack tars - sailors from the Royal or Merchant Navies.

 _There"ll be bluebirds_ ... First recorded by Glenn Miller in 1941, the version of this tune sung by Vera Lynn, and released the following year, became the most famous of all the songs of the Second World War.


End file.
